Tell Me You're Lying, Then Maybe I Can Listen
by seren-mercury
Summary: The mother once warned, "My child the worst of monsters come out in the light." And the mother was never wrong. Shawn is missing in action when a serial killer hits Santa Barbara. And worse the killer is calling for their psychic by name.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** If it looks familiar then it's not mine. No infringement is intended, and no profit is made. Property of others, who are actually paid.

**Title:** Tell Me You're Lying, Then Maybe I Can Listen

**Chapter:** Prologue

The television flickered to life and he put in the video tape. It fizzled and cracked sharply before a pale, dark green wall came into focus. The camera was swung down and finally the subject came into view. A young girl, no older than eight sat behind a steel table in what appeared to be an interrogation room. She was a pretty young thing, her dark blonde hair was tied back, revealing more of her delicate features. Her bright green gaze shifted nervously to the camera and her discomfort soon became apparent.

"Jenny." A soothing voice said from outside the frame, distinctly feminine. "I'm going to need to have you answer those questions we talked about now." A pained expression crossed Jenny's face and she fidgeted with her sweatshirt, one that obviously didn't belong to her, but to someone quite a bit larger and possibly male.

"Do we have to?" She pleaded.

"It's very important Jenny." The woman answered. The young brunette looked to the camera again and then back to where the speaker most likely stood.

"I'd really like to go. I don't-I don't remember so much. And I'm really tired. I wanna go now. Please." Jenny replied, her voice strained.

"I know Jenny, but you can't go just yet." Papers shuffled in the background. "Now, I want you to tell me about the day you were taken."

Jenny looked down at her fingers, the sound of her shaking sneakered foot filled the room.

"Jenny."

"He said it wasn't being taken. He said it wasn't stolen."

"What did he call it Jenny?"

"He said…" her voice became slightly watery. "He said that when something didn't have an owner anymore, he said, he said that," she sniffed, and brought her head back up, eyes defiant. "That it was garbage, and he collected people's garbage."

"What happened that day Jenny? The day he 'collected' you."

"I already told you." The girl said quietly. "Can I please just go?" Jenny fiddled with the zipper of her sweatshirt again. It was seemingly an unconscious act.

"No, Jenny. Officer Daniels and I have to record your statement. We need to do it now, while everything's still fresh in your mind."

"I might forget by tomorrow?"

"Jenny. I want you to tell me about that day."

Jenny heaved a heavy sigh, her shoulders sinking, and buried her hands in her sweatshirt. "I answer and I can go?" Apparently she received confirmation because she continued. "They told me to get ready, they said you were picking me up so I could see…so we could go to my parents'…" The little girl shifted yet again. "A man came in to my room at the hospital. He said he was there to take me to you. But I knew he wasn't. I told him…he got angry. He grabbed me and pushed the white stuff they use for bleeding, Nurse Mary said it was gauze, he made me breath it in. It tasted sweet, like…That's all I remember."

"Good Jenny. Now can you tell me what happened next?"

"No." The girl supplied simply.

"Jenny."

"I wasn't awake. I don't know what happened next. Can I go now?" She pleaded again, her eyes flicking to her right and the camera's left.

"Jenny. I meant when you were awake. What happened then?" Jenny's body tensed even more and she pulled the sweatshirt tighter.

"But I already told you." She whispered, her voice shaking.

"Jenny."

"Please."

"I need you to tell me what happened when you woke up Jenny."

"I-I" she look down to her hands that rested on the table. Her sleeves fell far past her finger tips. "I woke up in," she picked at the table. "In a room in his house. Like a dollhouse. He left me alone for a really long time. I don't know, I feel asleep a lot." Her green eyes flicked towards the right again, perhaps where the door lay. "I woke up one time and he was there. He likes to watch people sleep. They don't lie when they sleep."

"That's good Jenny. Very good. Keep going." A scribbling noise could be heard.

She swallowed and wiped her fabric covered hand under her eye. "He likes to talk. If you listen really quiet he doesn't get so mad so much. He just told me lots of things. He brought me food sometimes, and talked more. He let me use the bathroom if I said please and thank you enough. He doesn't like it when you forget." She sniffed again. "He talked about how people don't, don't appreciate things, how they throw things away when they don't have an owner. That's why he collected them, so they wouldn't be garbage anymore."

"Is that why he 'collected' you Jenny?"

"He told me the night before, he said that, that my parents, they didn't appreciate me. Like him. He saw, and he got angry. He said he wanted to take me away, but you can't take something from someone who owns it, that's stealing. So he, he" her chin shook and she breathed in deeply. "He made it so nobody owned me anymore."

"I want you to tell me about before that night Jenny."

"I just said." The girl remarked, a pleading tone in her voice. "He liked to talk. He talks about things all the time. I got to eat in the morning, he said breakfast is the most important meal of the day. He gives you cereal sometimes, or pancakes, or toast with eggs. He doesn't like bacon. Pigs aren't right." Jenny sucked in a shaky breath.

"What else Jenny?"

"He-he gets mad when you don't remember. The other girls he saved, they didn't listen. They would ask for things they shouldn't want, bad things, things that liars like, like bacon. They weren't thankful. They didn't appreciate him. Just like everyone else. I tried to remember." Jenny looked down at her lap. "He doesn't get so mad when you remember."

"What happened when you didn't remember Jenny?"

This time the girl didn't look up, she pulled her legs up onto her chair, tight against her chest, and folded her arms on top.

"Jenny? What happened when you didn't remember?"

She looked back at the speaker, her face solemn. "He gets really mad."

"What did he do when he was mad?"

Jenny played with her shoes and a slightly aggravated sigh came from behind the camera, this one masculine.

"He makes sure you don't want to forget ever again."

**A/N:** This one is also over at Psychfic(dot)com, an awesome site you should check out if you already haven't. The next chapter should be up in a day or two. Reviews are love. Hope you enjoyed this little appetizer.


	2. Chapter 1: But There Was A Duck Right

**Disclaimer:** Check the prologue, all is encompassed.

**Chapter One:** But There Was A Duck Right? (1,948)

Henry snatched his phone off the porch railing as soon as he saw the caller ID. Getting a hold of his son had never been easy, the last few weeks however were too reminiscent of the past for his tastes. Over the last two years tensions had eased considerably. They were down right civil on almost a daily basis and he wasn't eager to return to the cold war they'd called a relationship before all this.

"Listen Shawn I told you if you want the damn-"

"Mr. Spencer it's Gus."

"Oh, Gus. Isn't this Shawn's number?" Henry wiped a hand across his forehead. So this was not the détente he'd been hoping for.

"It is. He must of forgotten his phone. I was trying to let him know it was here. Guess he isn't there though…" His son's friend trailed off. Henry's brow furrowed, there was something off in the young man's tone.

The former officer sighed and leaned back in his chair, hoping to pinpoint the distress he heard, "No. He's been steering pretty clear of me since his mother left."

"Yeah." The pharmaceutical salesman paused, obviously unsure. "If you see him or-"

"You wanna tell me why you sound like someone stole your favorite teddy bear Gus? Or should I start guessing?" Henry questioned. Since when did Gus not know exactly where Shawn was at all times? Did the two even do anything separately when in the same county?

Gus cleared his throat and Henry could almost see his blank faced crumble. "You're the ninth person I've called…"

--

As it turned out Gus and Shawn hadn't been in the same county for two days before the phone call, he'd been six and half hours away. The last he had seen of his friend had been the night before he left for his conference in Sacramento. His friend had phoned to say he couldn't go to the client meeting the next morning. They'd fought, and in the end Gus had said some things he'd later wish he hadn't. Then he'd left so early the next morning it hadn't seemed odd to have not heard from Shawn.

However after the first day it had become strange, in fact he was surprised his friend hadn't already shown up to pull him out of the conference, sighting something like Mrs. Pickles gender-reassignment surgery going awry. On the second day the voicemails he left for him became increasingly annoyed. On the third day he arrived at the Psych office and found Shawn's phone lying neatly atop his desk.

Of course it didn't matter now.

Not now when Shawn was missing for 7-9 days.

And somehow between Santa Barbara's finest, Shawn's landlord, the waitresses at his favorite diner, his best friend, numerous female companions and his father that was the best timeline they could assemble.

Guilt was not exclusive.

That first day Gus followed his trepid phone call with a visit to Shawn's apartment. When he found the keys in the lock, he made another nervous call to Henry. This time every 'isn't he irresponsible criticism' died on his friend's father's tongue. Previously Gus had listened to the retired cop's slew of rationalities as to why Gus should not bother worrying about his son. But, as risky, as flighty as Shawn's behavior may have seemed to his dad, and yes his best friend too quite a few times, they both knew that there was nothing good that would lead Shawn to leaving anything he owned vulnerable.

The ominous discovery left them both filled with a sickening uncertainty. But they chose not to comment. They said nothing about joining forces and beginning an actual search. It was not mentioned that all signs pointed to, "against his will". Instead they checked the restaurants he frequented near his home, then the batting cage on the way back, just in case, the parks too, because you never know, and just three or four beaches, after all it was Shawn.

And in the meantime they called everyone listed in the directory on Shawn's phone. He'd probably kill Gus when he got that bill. Starting with the Aardvark farm and ending with the ZXY Salon in Soho. All the while pretending that they meant to ream Shawn upon finding him in the midst of some inane project.

However, by five o'clock that evening they'd found nothing, and according to everyone the two had spoken to no one had seen Shawn for two or three days. The answer was always the same, at least two maybe three, couldn't really be sure. Why? Was something wrong?

Finally, when they could no longer adequately excuse his absence, when they knew it was impossible to rationalize recent events, they made the trek to the Santa Barbara Police Department. It was time. Gus had called Detective O'Hara earlier, she was six notches above Henry on the call sheet. At the time he hadn't been the least bit worried, just checking to see if Sean was around, seeing if he'd taken a new case. However a lull fell over the station as the two men entered.

Karen Vick met them in front of her office, concern furrowing her brow. Her head detective and his junior partner were not far behind.

"Henry what…" The woman trailed, allowing instead for her former colleague to answer. After all the expressions worn by the men already spoke volumes.

"Gus and I are here to fill out a 142-06." Henry replied, his voice gravelly and low. Vick's eyebrows shot up, her eyes flickering between a haggard looking Spencer Sr. and the forlorn Mr. Guster.

"A missing pers-" she cleared her throat. "For who? Certainly not…" again she left her sentence unfinished. The return gaze from both Gus and Henry did that for her. "Step – step into my office." Karen continued, gesturing towards the open door. "O'Hara could you grab a 142-06(b) for Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster?" The girl nodded and headed off, Vick turned to Carlton and closed her door behind Henry and Gus. "How's your caseload detective?"

"Light, Chief." The man offered, hands in the pockets of his suit pants. Truthful as it was they both knew he could drag his feet, refuse to pander to the psychic's need for attention and reckless nature. Perhaps if Henry had not accompanied Guster, if they had not both looked like they had aged ten years in ten hours, he might of dismissed the entire claim. He may have cited Spencer being flighty and irresponsible, thoughtless and impulsive. But sometimes, sometimes you could just feel the wrongness of a situation in your gut. For Lassiter this was one of those times.

"Good." His commanding officer responded with a curt nod. "I'll need you on hand to arrest Mr. Spencer when we find him obstructing justice on some beach somewhere."

"It'll be my pleasure Chief."

--

Tracking down and calling every morgue in the greater Santa Barbara County area, every hospital, every mental institution, every juice bar in the city limits, every ex-girlfriend his not-so-little black book contained, the 754 people who's numbers he did not write down anywhere but were found via his twelve page résumé? 98 dollars and 23 cents.

Still finding no sign of Shawn Spencer five days after his MPR was filed and 8-10 days after he'd gone missing? Not worth a calculator.

Carlton had done the math while on hold to speak to a Doctor Zachary Tobias, Countess Anastasia DeMount, U-mon-ie James, Sgt. Dan Opnhink, Arnold/Anabelle Dravers (one person), Gerri and Paul Hawthorne, the chief financial officer of the largest software company in Germany, three Interpol agents and Moscow's premiere soccer team. Spencer really did get around.

So far the only possible clue found was his motorcycle, parked in a parking structure across the street from his apartment. However the attendants were only too sorry to inform them that the security footage was only kept for forty-two hours and repeat customers as jovial as Shawn were allowed to come and go as they please. He paid a monthly fee, on the D-L. After all he taught most of them how to play Texas Hold 'Em, and he'd gotten Edgar's daughter, Esmeralda, an internship with a congressman in El Paso.

The boys in forensics had combed over his apartment (which seemed to be untouched), the Psych office, the parking structure and his bike. His keys, which Gus had found in the lock, only had the psychic's prints on them and his wallet couldn't be located. Once again they were no closer to pining down a time-line or a reason for the disappearing act.

They did find an interesting notepad on the table next to his couch though. On it were dates, times, names and crimes. Carlton and Juliet managed to decipher it and discovered that despite his disaffirmations Shawn did still watch the news. And apparently he could still read guilt off the screen. It took four hours to close twenty seven cases, ranging from petty theft to the embezzlement of millions. He had a system too, as only the 'victimless' crimes were those that they had remained unaware of. The truly criminal acts that did not pertain to a case the psychic had already been working were already closed, all by anonymous tip.

Even Lassiter quietly admired Spencer for that.

Which was the thing about an investigation wasn't it?

When you don't know all the questions and none of the answers you have to go digging. And whether it's a murderer or missing person you find yourself immersed in someone else's life, trying to understand how Point A became Point B. It was almost an invasion of privacy. At first it had been tedious, fascinating and somewhat alarming. Part of him hoped to discover how Spencer did what he did in the process of discovering Spencer. Though it didn't seem likely.

The guy never took notes, he didn't write a single thing down. No phone numbers, no addresses, not even a damn grocery list. Oh there was the occasional doodle, perhaps a sketch. But no indications that he may need to store information.

At first he and O'Hara had assumed it was because he no longer kept in touch with those he met in his travels. When they spoke to them though the opposite was usually true. Most received some kind of communication: postcards, e-mails, telegrams, etc.

It was one of most difficult cases Carlton had worked in the entirety of his career. Unfortunately he didn't have to watch his co-workers morale slowly crumble with each passing, "No, haven't seen him." He didn't have to see Guster constantly crestfallen. His Chief didn't usually ask for hourly updates with contained anxiety. Henry didn't in turn stop by twice a day for twenty-minute meetings with his commanding officer. And his partner didn't slam coffee mugs, she didn't forget to say good morning to the rigid greeting officer, she didn't snap at rookie uniforms when they asked for the proper spelling of a word.

So maybe it was the most difficult case he'd every worked. And he was only five-no wait, what time is it? Six days in.

"Where the hell are you Spencer?" he asks the night sky and his unlocks his sedan. "You're really taking up way too much of my damn time." He mutters and he closes the door and turns the ignition. "I could be doing real police work. Not looking for your sorry ass."

Part of expects an answer. It's why he doesn't pull away at first. Like his phone will ring and he'll hear a "Lassie! I didn't know you cared." But the only reply he receives is his gaslight pinging on.

--

**A/N:** Okay so I'm extremely unsure about this chapter. In later chapters I feel good about my characterization but I'm not sure if I adequately got my points across, or if they're realistic enough. So I would really appreciate any feedback. I've re-written this chapter at least ten times. I just, I don't know. If you think it settles in too quickly to panic let me know. It's my biggest worry, I wanted to explain why that is. But I really can't tell whether I reached that level or not. I'm not above a total rewrite of the chapter if you guys think that's what it needs. Ack. Damn chapter. I like the rest. kicks chapter Stop being so difficult!


	3. Chapter 2: Don't Listen To The Trashcan

**Chapter Two:** Don't Listen To The Trashcan, He's a Pathological Liar (2,588)

If anyone who wasn't really a part of their department came by for a review they'd been in serious jeopardy. Karen couldn't honestly justify the manpower behind the search for one man. However, thanks to her detectives closing so many cases based upon Mr. Spencer's little transcripts, of which they'd have to discuss when he returned, withholding information was not a part of their arrangement, no such inspection was warranted.

If there was one though…well, the Interim may be slid in front of her title once more. Then again wouldn't that be fitting considering the person responsible for its removal was sight unseen.

She sighed as she watched her officers work. In her heart, as well as her head, she knew she'd have to pull the team off of this soon. Another murder would be called in, another kidnapping, another something that wasn't Mr. Spencer. Then her most efficient team would have to focus their attentions elsewhere. Or at least pretend to.

Vick checked the clock on her desk. It was almost ten, meaning Henry and Mr. Guster would be here soon to fill her in on their findings and ask about the leads her team had followed. It would be the seventh day in a row that she'd have to tell them nothing had panned out and futilely hope they did not come to do the same.

Karen was not at all surprised that someone who made so much noise left so much silence in his wake. However she never truly imagined that she would be craving the consultant's antics, and not only to revive her station, but simply because she too missed them. She would have readily admitted that while unorthodox and at times far too dramatic for her tastes, Mr. Spencer never ceased to entertain and/or annoy.

His effect was also far-reaching it seemed. Never had so many uniforms come in for status updates, offered up their services, or been so subdued under her command. She had seen this type of reaction before when she wore blue. However it usually only occurred when the victim wore a badge, or was under the age of sixteen.

They needed to find the psychic, and they needed to find him before her head detective became a full fledge insomniac, before her junior detective discharged her weapon for being interrupted, before the sight of Henry sitting stoically and silent in front of her along side a thoroughly crushed Mr. Guster started to contribute to even more sleepless nights.

Another check to the clock and she wondered if another cup of coffee would be excessive. Her train of thought was cut off however by her phone ringing. She sighed and cast one more look out to Lassiter and O'Hara, apparently the powers that be had heard her. Her suspicions were confirmed when the voice on the other end of the line informed her that there had been a double homicide on States Street.

--

The thing is, Jennifer hates Professor Gibbons. And not in that, oh he gave me a terrible grade on the paper so I must loathe him for eternity way. No she hates him because he's an idiot. So everyone knows he's sleeping with his grad student, whatever. But could he at least refrain from doing it in his office, or ask her to be quieter if they can't contain themselves. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could try to wait until his office hours were over. Seriously.

And she hated the Waxern Building, it was so far from civilization. And by civilization she meant the Tempel-Groggim wing, noted for its molecular biology department. She wouldn't mind enduring a lecherous professor with a predilection for cute blondes much like herself if she were guaranteed a lecture on Polymerase chain reactions.

She shivered and cast one last glare at his door, from behind which the cries of "Oh, Martin!" repeatedly reminded her of why she would be canceling her date on Saturday. Scratch that, all dates ever. A particularly irreverent shout sounded out from behind her as she trekked down the hallway. Perhaps she should carve out her ear drums too. Just to be safe.

So the thing is, since she was so very busy wondering if she could cause a concussion in order to experience a brief but blissful spell of amnesia, and what would be the best way to do so and keep the shape of her skull, she didn't notice him there.

She didn't notice until he'd already grabbed her and soft weaved cotton was pressed against her lips. It was funny too because it tasted kind of sweet like…

--

_"Jenny. Tell me about the basement."_

_The girl pulled her legs tighter into herself and buried her face in her arms. _

_"Jenny."_

_She sighed and looked wistfully to her right as she spoke, "You already made me show you when we were there. I want to go now. I told you everything else." _

_"Jenny. I am not asking again. Tell me about the basement."_

_"Can't I just call-"_

_"Jenny." The voice interrupted, irritation evident._

_Apparently the frustration was enough to push the little girl because she put her legs down, and sat up straight. "I told you. I told you over and over. The basement is where you go when you forget. He takes you there on bad days. He takes you when you don't listen." Jenny crossed her arms over her chest and kicked her heel against the leg of her chair. "But I told you that. And you wrote it down. I told you over and over and I don't want to do this anymore. I want to go see-"_

_"Jenny." The woman cut her off, not bothering to contain her irritation any longer. "The officer and I need to officially record your statement. It's extremely important. I do not think we need to explain this again. Now I want you to tell me more about the basement."_

_Jenny set her jaw and it was obvious that her eyes were tearing, though she seemed to be unwilling to allow them to fall. "I thought that paper you made me sign was my statement." She answered quietly and defiant._

_"Jenny. I wasn't asking. Now, tell me about the basement."_

_When the little girl continued she kept her stance rigid and her voice low, her eyes locked in front of her, possibly on the speaker. "He takes you to the basement when you forget. When you don't appreciate. When you lie. On the bad days. He takes you there and teaches you lessons. So that you won't forget. You shouldn't forget." Her sneaker bounced off the steel leg in rhythm with her words. "And I told you when we were there. I told you over and over. I'm tired of talking. I want to go now. You took so many pictures. You asked me so many times. I just want to go see-"_

_"Jenny." _

_The blonde heaved a heavy sigh and kept on her beat. "He helps you remember in lots of ways. I don't remember most of it. There are special drinks he makes sometimes before. It makes it harder to remember. Sometimes he takes you to the chair, sometimes he leaves you in there. I think he forgets sometimes too." Jenny pulled her sweatshirt back over her hands and then folded her arms again. "I think he forgets because sometimes I'd be there for really long and it wasn't even for a really, really bad thing."_

_"How long did he forget you for Jenny?"_

_"I don't know. I didn't have my watch. He broke it when he came to get me."_

_"How long did it seem Jenny?"_

_"It_ seemed _really, really long." Jenny sniffed and continued to reflect her shoe off the chair. _

_"Jenny."_

_"I don't know. He doesn't like windows. The dollhouse didn't have any. The basement doesn't have any either. I know I would sleep a lot. I think it was for days though. That's what he said one time. That he couldn't keep, couldn't 'keep this up'. That he'd lose, he'd lose something if did it again, two days was too long. I think that's what he said. Then he said he was sorry that he didn't give me breakfast for so long and he put me back to sleep. That wasn't so long ago, not before…" She trailed and her cast her eyes to the table._

_"Jenny, I'd like to talk about your parents now."_

--

When the mark of a month came around she and Gus found each other inadvertently. She didn't mean to drive to the office, she was supposed to be picking up her cat from the groomer's. But there she was, staring at the bubble-green letters, shades drawn. He was standing outside doing the same, his face worn.

It wasn't in her to leave him there, so she parked and walked next to him. They didn't talk for twenty minutes. It would have driven Shawn nuts. As soon as the thought crossed her mind she giggled. Gus turned to her for first time with an unsure smile. "I just thought-" she smirked sheepishly, "He'd hate this. He'd never be able to stay so quiet."

"Yeah." Gus agreed, a nearly real smile gracing his features. "It never made sense to me. He could trail you guys through the entire station without you knowing. But put him in a waiting room and he nearly has a fit."

"Or the way he was such an attention wh-…he loved being right and everyone had to know. But then he turns around and gives that astronomer case to Lassiter."

"Or how he'd sign himself out AMA of the hospital. But he stubs his toe and I hear about it for two weeks." Gus paused and scanned over the lettering on the window. "He was just, you know…"

She sighed and leaned against him briefly. "Yeah I do." The heaviness began to settle around them again and her throat tightened. "I could never understand how he did. The way he could just walk into a room and five minutes later, bam, everyone in it would be his character witness." Juliet pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "I give a cupcake to a female transfer and I'm charged with harassment." She sniffed.

This time Gus gave the realest laugh she'd heard from him in a month. "Pascaretti?" The detective nodded and he grinned. "Shawn went to her daughter's christening. He stood in for the baby's uncle."

It went on like that for at least fifteen more minutes before it melded into walking down the street to the diner for dinner. When they found it completely packed they were forced to return, food in hand, and actually enter the office. There were moments when the silence should have been filled by overly dramatic displays and bad impersonations, but there were also moments of familiarity.

As the food depleted and the conversation continued the two found themselves interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, followed by a tentative hello. A messenger entered bedecked in yellow and bearing an electronic clipboard. He snapped his gum obnoxiously and looked between them. "I'm looking for a ah-" he checked his paperwork, "Bur-tahn Gooster."

"That's me…" Gus answered, holding his hand out for the stylus, his face clouded with confusion.

The messenger popped his gum again, yanking the clipboard back. "K'I see some ID pal?"

Juliet and Gus stared at each other in mild shock as the pharmaceutical salesman reached into his back pocket. "For a delivery?" He questioned, handing over his wallet. The canary clad man kept right on chewing while he pulled the license out of the leather and compared it to Gus. Juliet tried to resist throwing something at him and opted for rolling her eyes.

"Says check ID. I check ID. You gotta problem guy?" He then matched the identification to the information on his clipboard, finally he nodded and threw the wallet and license back at Gus. "Sign here." He added, offering the clipboard to the other man. While her friend easily slid the foe pen across the LCD the horrific server ran his eyes over her. She cocked an easy eyebrow and opened her jacket, where her standard issue sat in it's holster, right next to the badge on her belt. His eyes went back to Gus, who had finished. The messenger chucked a dense package and saluted as he walked out the door. "Laiduh."

It was your standard bubble lined envelope, not at all threatening or unusual, but still there was something ominous about it. Gus opened it carefully, both he and Juliet too tense for something so mundane. Inside was a videotape. Not labeled, no distinguishing features, just a standard VHS. Without much in way of verbal communication the pair crossed the room and Gus slid the videotape in while he turned on the television. It crackled and fizzed before coming into to focus.

--

J.J. could never really understand what possessed people to run on a treadmill. What was the point? You could watch T.V. she supposed, but then wasn't that the reason they were running anyway? Because they spent too much time with a remote in their hand and not enough time with a free weight.

Plus you didn't really accomplish anything. Okay so whatever, you burned some calories and your heart rate got up and blah, blah, blah. But running, real running happened out here. In the world. Trees, rocks, uneven ground, rude oglers in the streets, bad music wafting down from houses, the smell of burnt toast and greasy eggs. At the end she'd done something, she'd gone somewhere, she'd seen something. Not just Ray Romano navigating turbulent familial waters.

She really didn't get it, what staying in some room in some gym, or some den in some house somewhere could hold to a real honest to god run. The kind that turned her legs to jelly, that wore so much tread off her Nikes when she went back to buy that new pair they wouldn't even be recognizably similar. Because once you found your running shoe you didn't need to keep trading up. That's what her dad had always said when she was still in that preteen fluctuation, when she starting taking this seriously, when it became a necessity not a habit.

And he was right, like always. She slipped on a pair of Nike cross trainers, took them out for a spin and never looked back. Her dad ran on New Balance. Back when he knee was still up for running. But that was before the…

She had to shake the thoughts from her mind and picked up the pace. As if she could outrun the memory. She concentrated on breathing, on the rhythm of her step. One, two, one, breath, one, two, one, breath. She tuned out the world, she tuned out her thoughts. All there was were her feet pounding the trail, the strain in her calves, the bob of her blonde pony-tail, the sharpness in her chest that came with strained breath and the sweat running down the center of her back. One, two, one, breath, one, two, one, breath.

She didn't notice him in the trees, the bushes, whatever had been at her side. Didn't notice until he'd grabbed her. She kicked out behind her but she never felt it connect. The second kick lacked the force of the first as she gasped in the sweet tasting…

* * *

** A/N:** Sorry for the wait, I've been a little tied up. The next chapter will be up tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 3: Trust The Weather

****

**Chapter Three:** Trust the Weather, It's Been Listening (2,743)

"A young girl was found this morning on Route 48 just outside Holmestead. Police are baffled as this is the fourth--

"The seventh girl was found this afternoon on the corner--

"It is unclear if all of the victims were killed by the same--

"Local police have handed over the investigation to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent Ma--

"still have no leads regarding the ten young girls found dead in--

"That's right Chad, she was approximately 13-15 years of age. The authorities were unable to match her to any--

" filed a missing persons report. They are asking for anyone with information to please call the--

"Unable to determine the cause of death as of--"

It cut back and forth every few seconds. It was the same three news stations, the same four or five correspondants, the same eleven or twelve newscasts. Snippet after sound bite for nearly eight minutes. Shawn would have made some comment about it not being suitable for epileptics. Gus and Juliet just sat in stunned immobility.

The ringing of her cell phone jerked both of them from their stupor.

"O'Har- Hi Carlton what's- I'll meet you there." She slipped it back in her pocket and turned tentatively to her friend. "I have to go, a murder over on Grand and Hollow. But…"

Gus took a shaky breath and didn't meet her gaze. "No. You should-you should go. I'll call- Mr. Spencer will have to... Yeah go Juliet, it's okay." He finally faced her and gave an assuring if unsteady nod.

"Well, bring this by the station after and don't um, don't touch anything like directly okay? Because-"

"Evidence."

"Yeah." She looked over him once again, an bit her lip. She really needed to get over to the scene. "Gus…" she trailed and he gave her his full attention.

"Juliet, really I'm fine. I'm just going to call Shawn's dad and we'll take it over to Chief Vick. It might have something to do with-It's fine. I have it under control." She nodded, and shifted, but based upon the determined look that had settled on his features apparently he had found his resolve.

Now she just had to find hers, because this mask was bound to crack when she combed over the brutal setting that awaited her. Carlton had given out curt details and as it were she'd be spending her evening with a filleted co-ed and a sleep deprived head detective.

--

He watches the tape three more times before he calls Henry. He watches it twice while he waits for him at the Psych office. They watch it five times before they call the chief. Neither of them mention that Henry hasn't been here since, well before. He doesn't mention that there's something eerily familiar about the hills and valleys that act as the landscape in each frame. They watch it once more before they go to the station.

Gus wonders if Shawn would have known by watching it once. He always did. He'd see what this was. He'd have guessed it six seconds in. Made Gus try and guess, which he'd have to draw out of him because who would know something like that unless they were Shawn. And Gus would get it in a minute or two, he'd see the connections and pretend he wasn't quietly shocked at the way his best friend's mind worked.

Shawn would know.

He wouldn't be sitting in an chair at the department waiting for Juliet and Lassiter while Chief Vick and Mr. Spencer watched the tape again. It would be the sixteenth time if he was with them. He wouldn't be waiting for them to try and figure out the wheres and the whens. He'd already know. He'd be channeling the ghost of Barbara Walters's parakeet and spewing out random phrases with truths thrown in intermittently.

But Gus didn't know.

He had no idea and Henry had tried to reassure him, in his gruff way. He'd given some offhanded comment on the despondent drive over about how he didn't even understand so why should Gus really. The double edged tact the older man only knew. But it didn't matter. Because he knew Shawn would be so many steps ahead of them. He would have found Gus right away if Gus had gone missing. He'd know. He'd see.

But he didn't see it. He felt awkward and out of place here now. He'd felt at home, confident, with his friend at his side. He'd thought that his stride had been found, that's he'd begun to understand how this all worked. But he didn't. Not without his decoder ring of a partner and pseudo-psychic friend. He'd been playing pretend. He only belonged here as an extension of Shawn.

Because Shawn would have had it all figured out from day one, he wouldn't be clueless on day thirty-one. He would have known why something was familiar in those backdrops. He'd had rattled off the zip code, where the best pancakes could be found and the town's divorce rate.

Gus cast one more look the pair behind the glass once more, they were rewinding the tape, and the chief was dialing a telephone number.

He'd said he'd wait for Juliet but…what use was he of here anyway?

He was better off going home and doing something productive. Something he understood. Like reorganizing his sales briefcase.

He didn't need to stay here.

Not anymore.

--

Carlton, in his own very…well, perhaps lacking in delicacy kind of way, tried to warn O'Hara before they entered a particularly gruesome scene. He wasn't particularly apt when it came to the touchier side of things, but even though he did not know how to express it, he did understand. He'd understood when she'd scene her first DOA, pretended she didn't throw up when they reached the station. He'd understood when she'd seen her first murdered child. He'd pretended she didn't have tears streaking silently down her face on the back stoop while he handed her a cup of coffee she was pretty sure was laced with a dash of something extra. And she pretended she didn't notice he was much more caring and thoughtful than he wanted to seem.

So when he'd called her after the tape had arrived he'd warned her, a very young girl was found tortured and killed. He gave his phrasing that indicated it would be difficult to stomach and to be prepared. However there wasn't much that could be done because there wasn't a single Lassiter-masked expression that could have adequately primed her for this.

The girl was found in a park next to a stone fountain that sat in the middle of a circular trail that branched off the at least five others. Her denim jeans were in tatters, nothing more than crudely fashioned shorts now. Her hair might have been blonde once, though it was too matted and stained with blood for anyone to be sure. Her shirt was missing, giving full view of the wounds to her abdomen, congruent with being burned repeatedly by an electric current. Each one of her fingernails had been removed, antemortem, and it was obvious from the lacerations on the rest of her exposed form that her captor reveled in her pain.

Whomever they had been they'd cleaned up after themselves meticulously. The gashs on her arms and legs and been cleaned, the blood washed from what articles of clothing she was wearing and her shoes and socks were pristine, most likely brand new. The only thing left untouched were the blood laden bruises that speckled her face, rendering it unrecognizable, and her aforementioned saturated hair.

Juliet had to steady herself before she found her place at her partner's side. And he pretended not to see her, not to admit, to allowing her a moment of composure.

"The M.E. puts time of death around eighteen hours ago, prelim says the blow to the head was most likely the actual COD. He can't be too sure just yet though, too much else going on." The head detective began clinically when she reached him. "Her name's Jennifer Granger." He answered before she could ask. "She's a freshman according to her ID."

"Did we have an missing persons on her?" Juliet asks quietly as she watched the forensic photographer step lightly around the scene, each movement punctuated by a sharp flash.

"Her roommate called it in two days ago, but she'd only been missing for a few hours so…"

"No official case until it'd been forty-eight."

"Exactly." Lassiter continued, noting something in the file he held in his hand. "With something like this it's pretty obvious this sicko has done it before. We'll have to start searching for similar MO's in surrounding counties. The Chief asked the psychologist to work up a profile, but we all know what it's going to say. White male, mid thirties to early forties, loner, crazy mother who didn't hug him enough or hugged him too much. I just ho-"

"Detective!" A cry from a crime scene technician cut him off. The young man waved the two over frantically. Of course what they were expecting, or what they'd find acceptably shocking in this situation was not what they found.

Nope, having the words "OLLIE OLLIE OXEN-FREE Spencer" carved on a nearby tree was not on the list.

--

You know what made no sense to Jen? Sitting here in this ridiculous restaurant with their terrible food and stuck-up waiters with a guy who couldn't remember that she hated being called Jennifer. Especially when someone pronounced it Jenn-i-furr, as if trying to impress her with their not from around her accent.

She hated blind dates. Why had she agreed to this? Oh right, Kelsey. Kelsey her soon to be ex-best friend who had sworn that this guy was cute, smart, funny, sensitive, artistic and chivalrous. What had she been on that she'd believed her? After all Kel's last three boyfriends had stolen either her television set, her credit card and/or Jen's television set or credit card. Usually to fund some pyramid scheme or their habit. Plus that man Kel had been describing? Not only did he not exist outside of a teen soap, his anti-agent was sitting across from her regaling her with his recent trip to Spain with his parents.

Kelsey was so beyond dead.

Jen was going to switch her shampoo with Nair. She was going to put a can of tuna in her air conditioning duct. Consider her salt shaker full of sugar and her sugar jar full of salt. It was over, done, war would break out as soon as she was out of enemy territory. (AKA bad French restaurant with name she wouldn't want to know how to pronounce as was probably curse word anyway) She was going to make Kel wish her brothers were staying at her place.

Oh it would be monumental, the payback for this.

Which of course cues her phone to ring, apparently her ears must have been burning the evil wench. But wait, what? Does Jen need her to fake an emergency, like say a house fire? Say elephants love cake if yes or dogs hate bananas if no? Um, how about a plain, oh my Kel what did you say? Which hospital? No I'll be right there love. Don't you worry. I'm on my way.

Jen doesn't even bother pretending she'll reschedule with Charming's evil twin's assistant. She nearly bolts from the table and out of the door, sucking the sweet air of freedom as she strolls lazily back to her Volkswagen. Kel's still going to regret this. Bail out or not the girl deserves a little mayhem.

And perhaps she should have thought about that before sticking the girl with six older brothers with a bum date. Oh, it would be delicious this revenge. She's careful to check under the cars as she walks by, a habit picked up from growing up in a bad city with all those extra Y chromosomes as family. She never thinks that he's waiting on her front stoop.

Doesn't think that turning to run just made it easier to grab her and stuff whatever the hell it was in her face. She gets a heel in his foot though, and an elbow in his gut before she realizes it tastes so sweet and the lights go out.

--

Gus's apartment doesn't actually get cleaner than it is right now. He has a lot of free time. He spends it calling contacts of Shawn, pouring over the official reports Lassiter and Juliet copied for him, listening to Shawn's CD's, and cleaning. So he decided to reorganize his closet. He's an hour and half in when he finds a box he forgot he had, it's filled with postcards from Shawn.

He'd had this thing too, he'd buy a bunch wherever he went and then save them and send them from somewhere entirely different. The ones he snagged in Miami came postmarked from Madison, Wisconsin. Those from Madison, traveled by way of Albuquerque. There were a lot from some town in Pennsylvania, a place he'd most likely found steady work, and…

Gus had a Shawn moment. Well at least half of one. He was pretty sure that this is kind of what is must feel like for him. That Aha! moment when it clicked. He dug through and found the cards he was looking for and bolted towards the door. Of course he was halfway down the hallway before he realized he needed keys.

The drive to the station took longer than he wanted and he reassured himself that he was correct about five times. But he was right, the cards said it all. And it made some sense to Gus finally, because he may not remember the placement of every pen in the mug on his secretary's desk, but this his memory could conjure up.

Five months. One town. Nearly a record. He'd stayed because of the work he'd found, a young couple who had inherited a used book store in a small town in Pennsylvania. The air had been crisp, the roads winding, the weather unruly. It had been exactly what he's been looking for at the time, something that wasn't Santa Barbara. The family had been wonderful, welcoming, entertaining, loving, and one member in particular captured Shawn's heart.

He'd wrote Gus on the back of a postcard from Arizona, telling him all about the countryside, Emma and Robert, the shop keepers, and the way his bike hugged the interstate. But no topic held more interest or delight then the adventures of Shawn and their little girl. Her name was Jenny.

--

Jenna's never really been the social type. She'd much rather be back in her dorm room listening to her bi-curious roommate tell her long-distance boyfriend that there love could traverse continents while she prowled Facebook for a "lab partner". But she had promised the girl in her Comp 121 class that she would come and she tried to keep promises. Even when they involved navigating her way through drunken amateur gymnasts putting their skills on display for adoring frat boys.

But she needed air, she'd said hi to Mandy and sipped flat beer, she'd laughed at the bad jokes Mandy's boyfriend Brock passed off as amusing and she'd nearly reached her quota. She needed a book, some Dashboard Confessional and a glass of cranberry juice. She needed out of this itchy sweater her bi-curious roommate had squeezed over her head and the slinky jeans she'd had to lie on the bed for her bi-curious roommate to button.

She weaved around the digestive pyrotechnics a Sigma something was putting on display and bobbed around two Theta something's giggling incessantly over the way their flip-flops dangled off their toes before she found the back door to the house. She closed it as quickly and quietly as possible in hopes of deterring any would-be follower. She'd rather have the porch to herself.

That's when she noticed the basketball hoop hung above the garage at the end of the driveway. She'd never been much for athletics, but it was something to kill time. The ball was settled against the far wall of the garage. He grabbed her when she bent down to pick it up.

She was so small he easily lifted her from the ground, gauze clamped tightly to her mouth and nose. The sweetness of it burst on her tongue just as she managed to find a niche above his bent knee. She dug in her heel and kicked downward with all the strength she had before she lost touch with the conscious world. Later she'd take satisfaction in causing him to favor his right leg, especially since his right foot already seemed to have sustained some damage. Though the reveling wasn't enough in the end.


	5. Chapter 4: How Harry Got To The Party

**Chapter Four:** How Harry Got To The Party (2,575)

**One month, five days and eighteen hours ago…**

"Gus, what are the chances of me getting you to learn Latin?" A look from his friend caused Shawn to pout. "Gus, it's an important language stepping stone-"

"What's her name Shawn?"

"Name? Don't you mean Nomen?"

"I am not learning Latin so you can impress some girl Shawn."

Shawn look affronted, "Gus, I'm trying to expand your horizons and you accuse me of-"

"Shawn." His friend added knowingly, however Shawn continued.

"I mean the Adult Learning Center is a very respectable institution and-"

"Shawn." He tried again, this time with more conviction.

"Plus, Veronica mentioned tha-"

"I knew it! I told you Shawn, I'm not taking Latin classes so you can get some girl to go out with you."

"Gus, first of all," Shawn started, taking a seat behind his desk and putting his feet up. "Her name is Veronica," his eyebrows raised, "Vurr-ron-ika. Come on man." He smiled suggestively. "And second of all, she also teaches gymnastics. Which is just self-explanatory. Lastly, it's not for me, or I'd know how to say something other than 'credo Elvem etiam vivere' already." Shawn pulled a brochure out of his back pocket and slid it towards his partner.

Gus opened his mouth to respond, but Shawn's phone rang, effectively cutting him off. "Yes?" The smile slid of Shawn's face. "A- What's- Where-Okay, no, no." His friend grabbed his keys off his desk and his leather jacket off the back of his chair as he stood. He cast a glance to Gus and let the ease fall back in his stance. "I want you to call me as soon as- Okay. Yeah. Thanks." Shawn finished shrugging on his jacket and hung up.

"Shawn?" Gus began to question, but a familiar smile fell onto his pseudo-psychic friend's face, replacing the lines of worry that had creased it when the phone call began.

"Look's like I'm obligatus, my friend. Give Veronica my best." He made his way towards the door, sticking his head back in before leaving to add, "She's one of those environmentally conscious chicks, she likes Tai food, and, oh, ask her about her sister's design business." With that he closed the door.

Gus let the suddenness wash over him. Finally his gaze slid over to brochure. Her name was Veronica, which was kind of hot, and she spoke Latin.

--

**One month, three days, six hours ago…**

"No Shawn." Juliet answered as she slid the McNamara file back into the cabinet. He kept his place, perched on the edge of her desk. She could hear the smirk in his voice. Not smile, smirk.

"Jules." He dragged, tone low and full of amusement.

"Shawn. No." She punctuated her reply with a slam of the drawer.

"But Jules-" Now he'd resorted to whining.

"But Shawn." She copied taking her seat.

"Are you by chance trying to mock moi?" The psychic asked with feigned indignation, complete with a hand to the chest and a thoroughly affronted expression. She widened her eyes briefly and tried to hide the smile she felt creeping onto her face. In the end she had to bite her bottom lip to do so.

"I can't let you borrow the department phone to call Moscow and bid on an easel from Aimee Romonov's blue period." She stated firmly, finding resolve easier to maintain when she stared not at her friend, but at her computer screen.

"Jules, I'm not sure you understand the kind of opportunity we're going to miss here."

"We're?"

"Sharing _is _caring Juliet." Shawn countered, face serious. Sometimes she couldn't decide whether she needed to hit him or break into hysterical laughter. "This is a once in a lifetime-"

"Shawn stop. I really can't." He opened his mouth to protest and she held up a hand. "Even if I wanted to," she continued, her voice low, "I couldn't." The blonde leaned forward. "So please, stop asking." She watched the gears turn behind his hazel-green-blue-brown eyes before he sighed deeply and pulled back.

"Well, I'll ignore the, even if you wanted to part, which obviously implies that you do in fact want to, if," he gave her his most serious of expressions, "and only if…" he sucked in a large breath, "You let me use your computer."

Juliet weighed her options, but in the end she knew that the age old cliché was so true when dealing with this particular Spencer, especially when it came to her, resistance was futile. She slid out from behind her desk, shaking her head as she went to get herself a refill from the coffee carafe.

Shawn jumped into her seat with a triumphant smile and a quick rub of the palms before settling into whatever ridiculous scheme he had concocted this time. She rolled her eyes as she added cream and searched for a stirrer that did not have remnants of something akin to sap.

One day, she'd say no, she'd mean it, and he wouldn't use to his advantage. No charm, no smile, no witty turn of phrase would persuade her. Just not today. Or tomorrow really because…

Damn. Who was she kidding?

--

**One month, two days, four hours ago…**

"Spencer so help me I will-"

"Lassie. That is no way to speak to a respected colleague over the phone. I resent the i-"

"Spencer." Carlton growled. All he got was an insufferable laugh in response to his frustration. One day it would possible to reach through the phone, he'd seen it in a special on the Discovery Channel. Not as informative as the History Channel, but they had been showing one of those Star Wars documentaries that night. Star Wars. What business did that have with the great wars? Times in history when men had fought with honor, with dignity, where it wouldn't have been illegal for a man of his stature to shoot Spencer for-

"Lassie are you still there?" He was not so lucky. No, he had to be born in time period where Spencer also happened to be alive. He glared at the sky. Someone up there was asking for it. "I know you're probably wondering how I got your new number. Especially when you had it changed, six times, explicitly told everyone not to give it to me and made it unlisted-"

"Wait how did you get my number?"

"That's not important Lass-tastic. What is important is th-"

"Spencer is someone bleeding?"

"In the vicinity or like in general because somewhere, yes, I'd say with 98 percent positivity, someone is bleeding. Probably even profusely." He could hear the grin in his voice. He needed to shoot something. Preferably Spencer. More than once. "But right here, no, not that I know of…"

"Goodbye Spencer." He moved the phone towards the receiver but Spencer's incessant yelling stalled him. "What. Do. You. Want?" He ground out.

"Would you be interested in buying a subscription to Seattle Life, a very informative and widely prai-"

Lassiter hung up. He needed to shoot something.

--

**One month, one day, nineteen hours ago…**

"Gus!"

He flicked on his light and groaned when his eyes fell on his alarm clock.

"You're awake!"

"Shawn, I have to be up early tomorrow. I have to prepare for the conference in-"

"Gus. I need you to listen."

"Shawn. I'm not doing this tonight. You can call back in the morning. Loraine can take your message and I'll get back to you." He clicked the light off again. "Go away." With that he hung up, only to have his cell buzz and flash moments later. He opened it quickly. "Shawn I swear if this-"

"Gus, seriously, hanging up on me? That got a little old back in 1988." He opened his mouth to answer but his friend continued. "Besides you know what happens when you hang up on me. I hope you put your key somewhere a little more original, because-"

"Shawn." He sighed. "What do you want?"

"I want to ask my best friend how his date with Veronica went."

"I'm hanging up now Shawn."

"No wait, Gus."

"What Shawn? It's two o'clock in the morning Shawn. Two o'clock Shawn. I have a meeting in four hours Shawn. Four hours Shawn."

"Are you going to say my name in that scold-y voice again because I'm losing my ability to take you seriously."

"Goodbye Shawn."

"Fine. I guess I wont tell you about the super-cool secret case we're working on when you get back."

"Goodbye Shawn."

This time the tone of Shawn's voice was different from anything Gus had ever heard from him. But he was still asleep, and even later when he scours every note for some hidden meaning, he still finds no place for it.

"Goodbye Gus."

--

**One month, ten hours ago…**

Shawn paced the length of his living room again. He hated having to rely on everything falling into place slowly. But it was just a safety net. Just in case something ha- It wouldn't. They wouldn't need it. And even if they did, they'd put the pieces together. He was being paranoid anyway. The chances of- It was crazy. Then again so was- He sighed and checked his watch again.

The thing was he really never thought about this anymore. It had been so long ago. And after the accident a few years ago he really didn't think it would ever even be an issue. Now though, it seemed this nightmare had crept back into the world. Maybe crept wasn't the right word, perhaps viciously clawed did it more justice. He was just glad that she wasn't around to be dragged into this mess again.

Of course this all meant that if he couldn't nip it in the bud here and now they'd all be pulled down. They'd be forced to connect the dots, find the source, and he might not be able to help. He might already be benched by the time the game really started. One dead co-ed in the Keystone State was just a flexing of the muscles, a warm-up. That thought brought with it a wave of nausea and keenly repressed memories. The kind that came every so often and made him wish he was a little better at forgetting what he saw.

He glanced towards the door as a knock sounded. Just like the person that caused the sound it was sharp and cold. He really couldn't stand-He shook himself. Didn't matter. Not if he wanted to make sure the evil bastard of evil bastards was shoved back into retirement, or off a cliff. No need to be particular. He squared he shoulders and opened his apartment door.

It would be his last conscious act this side of November.

_--_

**Twelve minutes ago…**

"Doctor are you sure it's wise to deprive him of any-"

"I am the one treating the patient Maxwell."

"I know Doctor I just thought-"

"Well there is the problem right there Maxwell." The woman snatched to chart from his fingers and looked over the latest data. The patient lay in a cot to her left, sleeping with sedative assistance. His most recent vitals looked promising. Perhaps soon she would wake him. There were more tests to run after all. It was not every day that one was presented with such a delectably unique case. No this came around only once in a career, she smirked, perhaps twice.

The doctor slammed the chart against the scrub-clad assistant at her side. "If I wanted your opinion Maxwell I would ask. Did I ask?" He shook his head. Good. "No I did not." She cast her glance back over the slumbering form. A clean slate. It was mouth watering truly. She could barely contain her excitement. She nearly woke him up two weeks ago, purely out of her anxiousness to start. But her head prevailed and she continued treatment.

There was no sense in starting a study she would not be able to finish. No this would take time. So much time she would have. To explore this mind, so unlike most. To set back the clock and watch it as if for the very first time. The only way to prove to the world how right she was. She sighed contently. It would be wonderful. Spectacular. And to think it would not be the only experiment running.

This was what she had waited for. This is what she had toiled through medical school, through specialty certification, through graduate school for. All for this moment that was right around the corner. She would wake him tomorrow, just as the monster was settling back after it's slumber. They'd wake together, all three.

It was so poetic. So right. So perfect. She really was genius. No one would be able to dispute that after this. No, they'd all know, they'd all be sorry. Most of all she'd be sorry, and so would he. So sorry they had denied her before. But she was teaching them, she was such an excellent teacher. They would know soon. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow they would both wake up, and the monster would be waiting…

--

**Now…**

Gus nearly slid into the police station. Juliet and Lassiter were already back, standing in the conference room with the Chief and Henry, explaining something as they pointed to the bulletin board. He dismissed this because what he had to say was more important.

He burst into the room with almost as much pomp and circumstance as Shawn might have had he been the one ready to brandish this clue. They all turned to face him, questioning looks on all their faces, a well as slightly scolding, at least on Chief Vick's and Mr. Spencer's. Lassiter held more towards thoroughly annoyed. A look he usually reserved for Shawn. The only constant friendly face was Juliet. Another common reaction to Shawn, not him. He would have laughed at the coincidence of it, but he was too busy being just as clever as Shawn so it didn't matter.

He held out the postcards as his glorious proof of just how much he belonged in this room, searching for his best friend. "Pennsylvania!" He gasped. Running from his apartment to his car then from his car to the station had left him without breath.

"What?" The female detective asked before anyone else had a chance.

"The tape." Gus started again. "It's." He paused and gulped in breath. "It's from Pennsylvania. From the same town Shawn stayed in ten years ago." He placed the eight or so cards picturesque landscape side up on the table in front of the Chief and his friend's father. Lassiter and Juliet leaned in as he pointed to the mail. "He was there when they were filming those."

"Are you sure Mr. Guster?" Karen Vick asked skeptically, pulling two of the cards closer to her and eyeing them carefully. Henry roughly slid one closer to himself as well.

"I'd say he was Karen." The older man squinted and turned to another card. "Looks about the same to me."

"See! I found them when-" but his explanation was cut short as Buzz McNab ducked his head in and cut Gus off.

"Sorry, Chief," the kindly officer started, "but there's a call in for the detectives. A body was found in the trails over by-"

"We were already there McNab." Lassiter slipped in roughly.

"No, you weren't sir." The young man answered evenly. "There's another body."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm so sorry for the ridiculous delay. I have absolutely no excuse. If you knew how long I'd had this so-close-but-not-quite-done you'd find your stashes of bad fruit. Either way I swear I will not the next chapter take so long to be posted. And feedback would be lovely, I'm still a little nervous about the characterizations and your thoughts would be terrific. Thanks for sticking with the story.


	6. Chapter 5: Set Yourself On Fire

**A/N:**This chapter and it's finishing may be credited to moogsthewriter updating Vengeance, which I adore. As well as the album 'In Our Bedroom After The War' from Stars, specifically the song "Life 2: The Unhappy Ending".

**Chapter Five**: When There's Nothing Left To Burn You Have To Set Yourself On Fire (3,297)

**Past**

_She knows she shouldn't be reasonably surprised when they find the girl in the exact same condition as the first, but she still is, hardened detective training in place or not. You can tell by the exposed skin that isn't covered in lacerations that she's young. Perhaps as young as the first. Though she simply can't imagine someone taking the life of two children in so little time. _

_And yet, here she and her partner stand, watching over the disregarded remains of another victim. Another soul lost to this unknowable monster. Another case that was just as likely to go unsolved. It had been two and a half weeks since the first girl was found. A teenager taking a detour after a long road trip stumbled upon her. The media had been conspicuously absent, then again maybe not. There wasn't so much national coverage for a career foster child found dead in a ditch. There aren't any parents to plea on television for their little girl. There isn't any school provided portrait to plaster all over the papers begging for information. It was wrong to hope that this girl had a family somewhere that was missing her, but at least then it might matter to someone who didn't wear a badge six days a week._

_She steels herself for a minute and turns back to the victim, broken and bloody, discarded like so much trash. It's time to pretend she can work this scene. _

_-------_

_Shawn hadn't been looking for a place in Pennsylvania and he certainly never thought he'd fall in love when he stopped at the local bookstore to check a map on his way to upstate New York. His mother was doing a workshop in Albany for another two weeks. He was on his way out of Albuquerque and it seemed like the right kind of exhausting endeavor to distract him. Now he just needed to take a gander a map that would lead him through the Keystone to the Empire._

_That was until he lost his heart and his will to leave Pennsylvania. _

_She was sitting on the counter, her well taken care of blonde hair pulled half-back, showing delicate features and curious green eyes. She flashed a glance at him when the bell above the door announced his entrance. He watched as her gaze flickered from his leather jacket to the bike outside and then back to the book that had held her attention before he arrived. _

"_Daddy," she called in a sweet voice, "There's a boy here to steal from you."_

_Shawn fought the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She said it so matter-of-factly, a sarcastic seven year old. That was new. He walked forward, eyes narrowing as he took in everything of interest in the small store, finding his quarry next to the girl on the counter. In the background, behind her he listened to Third Eye Blind being turned down and the man he could easily read as the child's father stepped into the room, an apologetic smile on his face._

"_You'll have to excuse Jenny." His quiet voice started, amusement sparkling in eyes that matched his daughter's in every way but size. "She doesn't always remember the filter between mouth and brain." He emphasized his point by poking his daughter while he spoke, inciting rapturous giggles from her. By the careful way he spoke and the words he chose Shawn could easily tell that the gentile man, perhaps –at most-six to eight years his senior had been well educated and intended for his daughter to be as well._

_He found himself gazing again at the store, though it was thoroughly catalogued in his memory already, searching for signs of this newfound knowledge. It was easy to see in the scattered titles that his assumptions were correct. It was slightly confusing however as the child at the counter had to be at least seven years old, possibly even eight, and yet her father could not be more than twenty seven. That didn't really seem conducive to the education his mannerisms hinted to. The lilt in his voice spoke of Massachusetts origins, and the strict annunciations of a university setting in the same northeastern region. Perhaps Brown, or Columbia. _

"_Daddy he was going to steal." The one referred to as Jenny replied quickly. "He has a motorcycle." She finished in a whisper, as if that decided the matter. Now both Shawn and the bookstore owner fought grins._

"_It's not the motorcycle that makes me the bad guy." Shawn started, "It's the hair. Bad guys always have really great hair." He paused for effect. "I thought about becoming a potato chip sorter, but I knew, with hair like this," He gestured grandly, "only one career option available."_

_Jenny's father smiled from behind her but his daughter held Shawn's gaze squarely. "Maybe you should shave it off. You're not very good at being a bad guy."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_You're not supposed to get caught before you start stealing."_

"_Maybe you're just too good of a detective."_

_She smiled at him widely, appreciative that he continued the joke and Shawn was smitten. "Maybe. Or maybe you should be a potato chip sorter." She offered before going back to the book she held. _

_Shawn laughed and Jenny's father, quickly introduced as Robert, started to help him find the right map and ended up offering him the apartment next door as well as a job._

_-----_

_The third girl was found the first week Shawn worked for Emma and Robert. As it happened Emma was just as soft-spoken and kind as her husband. It was easy to see that the sense of humor showcased so publically by their daughter was something they had inspired but not something they so readily revealed. The precocious nature of Jenny seemed to be born rather than nurtured. She and Shawn were soon fast friends and traded banter as easily as they traded information about the store's customers._

_Shawn would first voice his observations and then conclusions, after which Jenny would inform him of how off base he happened to be and give him outrageous stories she swore to be true. Eventually either Robert or Emma would correct their daughter, amused by her imaginative tales, but insistent upon her being kinder to the patrons. She would always persist that Shawn was smart enough, barely but enough, to know she was only speaking in jest. And if he wasn't did her parents really want him cataloguing their shelves?_

_It was easy to see that the girl was not the average eight year old. And it was even easier to see that she and Shawn were kindred spirits. Under the nurturing influence of both of the elder Rileys Shawn was treated more like her wayward older brother than an employee and he was happy to forget that was far from the truth._

_He never asked why, at only 27 and 26 Robert and Emma respectively had a daughter of such an age. He didn't ask why or how they had gone from students at Ivy League universities to running a shop in a small town in rural Pennsylvania. He could tell it was not a subject that was ever broached, especially in the company of perceptive and sharp little Jenny. He wouldn't get his definite answer until after the accident and after the abduction but at the time his theories were as enough for him._

_It's during that first week that Shawn curses his father for the first time in eight days, a sort of record. One of the rather ingrained senses his dad imparted that he could live without was his never-ending awareness of local police activities. While being attuned to the goings on of the nearest law enforcement officials might have been a useful skill if Shawn were a career criminal or partaking in nefarious deeds in his off hours it was instead a graining annoyance that only assured him of their incompetency. Too often he was finding himself incapable of standing idly by while they botched obvious cases and then animosity was all he garnered for his effort to solve their mistake. That and a polite suggestion to move on or continue being ticketed every time he stepped out his door._

_He doesn't want to notice, and certainly doesn't need the distraction. He was happy in his oblivion the company of the Rileys provided. This case was different though. The locals hadn't realized that though the bodies were dumped in three separate and non-bordering counties they were killed by the same excuse for humanity. He called the most promising of the three branches and pretended to be from one of the previous two asking if they've noticed the connection between the crimes. That should mean federal involvement and he shouldn't have to hear about kids being found on the side of the road. Should and actually happening apparently don't coincide as often as one would think._

_As usual it would seem his father's imposed destiny would be circumventing Shawn's plans. This time however Shawn refused to lose the tranquility he gained with each new day in these green hills. His resolve would have shattered had the news station that his apartment picked up aired segments on the victims four, five and six. He doesn't hear again about the killer until victim number seven and by then, well by then the monster's already bought a copy of Catcher In The Rye, and Jenny has already smiled sweetly while she put it in a bag and her mother handed him his change. By then it's too late to stop the roller coaster._

-----------

**Present**

Phone calls, that's what happens after they return to the crime scene they just left, only to have another victim on their tally. Another girl, so young, found in almost the exact condition as the first. There could be no doubt as to the connection. The same monster, the same slaughter.

When they finally finish, a barked order for more uniforms left in their wake, it becomes a game of catch up, research and phone calls. Gus is quick to explain his theory, something he seems so hopeful over, to the partners again. The chief is already trying to get a hold of someone in Pennsylvania, but they're three hours ahead of them and important people are asleep. It's taking too long.

Juliet steers Gus from Lassiter who might inflict some kind harm, Gus is still on his high and the detectives can't join him, not now. Not when they've found another girl, barely entering adulthood, brutalized beyond anything but dental recognition. Especially when the person drawing all of the hatred Lassiter could channel was leaving notes in the pocket of that poor kid's jeans demanding the attention of someone they hadn't seen in over a month.

It was best that he accompany her back to her desk while her partner dug through case logs and tried to find a liaison from the Philadelphia office of the F.B.I. that was awake. He could growl at the federal agent and smash his stapler against his desk instead of doing so to her friend. They would go over the postcards Gus had brought to them again and try to contact the local news station and try to track down Emma and Robert Riley, or perhaps their daughter Jenny. She'd be about eighteen now.

While it would perhaps sound more official to use police channels to ferret out the whereabouts of the Riley family a search yielded no results and the bookstore is a Starbucks now. Juliet turns to Google. Not as official, but six times as fast and a hell of lot handier. They scroll through the results, looking for something that will narrow the trail, of course a headline reading "Foul Play Suspected In Fatal Riley Crash" was not what they suspected. They also never thought that clicking on this first link would bring them to a page that listed the title and web address of every article in a series. A series that read more like an impressive arrest record than the tale of a young and promising family.

-------

**Past**

_Four months after Shawn started working for the Rileys he knows he has to move on. He's running out of postcards that aren't from this zip code and he doesn't need to be even more attached to the small family. He left Santa Barbara swearing to never be tied down, to never lose the freedom of choice and spontaneous decision-making. Now he models his schedule around that of the Riley family. _

_He picks Jenny up from school on the days that Emma teaches night classes at the local high school. He drops her off on the mornings that Robert lends his editorial services to the publisher two towns over. He sleeps on their couch on the Saturdays that they venture to Manhattan after he and Jenny get back from the park. The people in town have started to assume he's some kind of younger sibling to one of the couple. Jenny spurs this even further by calling him all kinds of familial nicknames when they're in public. She adores confusing the busy bodies. He enjoys it just as much and lets her._

_This is not the life he set his course for and he knows he has to start extracting himself from it. He needs to stop eating dinner with them five nights out of seven. He needs to not be the second emergency contact at Jenny's school. He needs…he needs to leave. So he sits Emma and Robert down and starts explaining, he vows he'll go more than two weeks if that is what they need to find the right kind of help. He assures them he won't be a stranger, and he'd never miss Jenny's birthday in the fall._

_Perpetually Robert and Emma they smile happily for him and beg that he not worry about their replacing him. They ensure that he could leave tomorrow as long as he promised to visit and it would be no strain on them. He explains that the need to leave is not nearly that urgent and promises them the next two weeks. _

_It is while Shawn plans his departure and pours over maps of the continental United States in his apartment that the monster buys a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. Jenny smiles just as sweetly while she hands him the change and her father offers him the bagged novel. She has recently mastered the new cash register and is quite proud of herself._

_At the time when Shawn decided to continue on to Albany, though his mother is long gone, the monster decides that Jenny is the epitome of what a little girl should be. The monster returns her warm smile, knowing that he will be back for another classic tomorrow. He will return for another book and he will return for her. Those parents can't possibly appreciate what they have, perfection for a daughter. _

_The monster hates their ignorance, he hates that they pawn off their child so often to their hired help. They don't understand how precious she is. They don't understand how soon those precious young girls change. They change into something dirty and nasty. They learn to lie, to manipulate. They become women. He's been trying to save them. He's saved almost ten now. But Jenny. Sweet, dear little Jenny. He might be able to save her beyond all the others. Eventually they all fall into the wicked ways of women. Just like Eve, they bite the apple of sin. And so he must save them from themselves in the most decided of ways._

_But he could save Jenny; he could save her before her ignorant parents could ruin her. She was so much like…_

_He could save her from sin. _

--------

**Present**

Juliet begins scrolling and with each word, each new title, she feels the horror begin to creep in deeper. Beside her Gus has lost all the goodwill he had gained with his discovery. It is clear that they were both left out of this piece of Shawn's past. Very clear that despite his easy demeanor and inviting presence that seemed so open and exposed Shawn had been locking away parts of his life, parts of himself, and the idea was jarring. Shawn had always seemed the type to be unable to keep a secret for more than hour. Hell forty-two seconds. Here in these headlines they found that supposed fact irrevocably wrong. Perhaps they had not found their friend because they really had no idea who they were looking for.

Juliet moves the cursor, banishing the thought, and clicks on the most demanding of titles.

"_**Jennifer Riley – Survivor of Preteen Predator – Dies In Car Accident On Same Highway As Parents – Age 16"**_

----------

**Past**

_Shawn finished his sorrowful two weeks with the Rileys, more forlorn about leaving this home than he had any right to be. Jenny had stopped talking to him the minute she was informed of his plans. She didn't break her silence when he showed up at the bookstore that night with the key to his apartment. It was very like the scene in which they had first met. She sat on the counter, serenity long forgotten however, her blonde hair pulled halfback to reveal her delicate features, a book in her lap. _

_Emma and Robert were both behind her now and this time Collective Soul was wafting through the speakers of the small radio in the back. He hugs Emma and Robert, they are ever their quiet and kind selves, giving him his last paycheck that he suspects is far too generous and that he'll have to mail back. After a few minutes Jenny still refuses to look up so Shawn approaches her._

"_Hey, Jaybird, you got any parting words for your uncle-brother-in-law-cousin-resident thief?" The nickname is one he usually only uses when they're alone. She once confided that she wasn't very partial to being called Jenny. Saying that there were too many songs about girls named Jenny. People were prone to crooning them, usually off key, whenever they saw her. As if it were appropriate to sing "867-5309" to an eight year old or any form of a Little Richard ballad. So instantly he'd begun referring to her with every possible dilution of Jennifer he could imagine. The one he used most often, though not exclusively, was the one he used now. It was markedly her favorite. _

_When she speaks her sweet voice is thick, "If I say goodbye then you're allowed to leave." She continues, her tone now falsely harder, "Besides I'm not talking to you."_

_He ignores her and wraps her in a fierce hug. It doesn't take a measurable amount of time before she returns it with as much intensity as a child can. She never allows herself to really cry, but a few small tears burn down her cheeks. "You can't leave if I don't say goodbye." She whispers to him again._

"_I really wish that were true." Shawn answers, quietly enough that she was the only one to hear. Had she been just a bit older she would have heard the weight of what he'd said. _

_When he starts his engine a coroner loads the body of the tenth victim in his van. And the monster is finally ready to save his Jenny. Everyone is too blissfully oblivious, Shawn speeding towards the state line, Emma and Robert consoling their daughter, the detectives filing missing persons reports for the tenth victim hoping and dreading a match…_

_They don't notice that the monster is so close, so ready. _

_The monster that steps into the light._

**End Notes:**

So as has become the norm this chapter is past due. The next one shouldn't take me as long as I'm writing it now. I was thinking of waiting to post this one until I finished that one but I thought you might rather I posted this as soon as I could. This chapter is a lot darker than many of the others and the next will not be much better. Expect angst for some time.

Please review, thoughts, criticism, requests for gunplay...


	7. Chapter 6: Nothing Up My Sleeve

**A/N: **This chapter is because of you guys. To all the reviewers and alerts and favorites, especially those who probably could guess I mean them. It's been too long, and there isn't a reason beyond writer's block. So thank you to all those that read, all those that review and this chapter especially to MCS's new album because it provided just the right soundtrack.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own what you recognize. But the sadistic bitch is all mine.

**Warning:** This is the first and hopefully the last chapter to have one. This chapter has no style, no flow, no elegance. It was eaten by the exposition fairy. It repeats dialogue that you've seen before; I did change almost all that surrounded the dialogue offering reactions and such but still. It's also the longest chapter to date. So, warning, this chapter might just suck and I'm so incredibly sorry that after this long ass hiatus this is all you get.

**Chapter Six:** Nothing Up My Sleeve, The Left One Anyway (4.945)

If Juliet and Gus were responsible for finding the puzzle pieces they needed then Lassiter was the one that found the box. Or put them together or found the puzzle maker or whatever. Analogies didn't matter. What did was that in only the twenty-four hours since they stumbled upon the string of articles Lassiter had managed to track down the lead federal agent on the Preteen Predator case, the lead detective on the Riley case and discover why the sociopath that was killing co-eds was asking for Spencer.

He'd be smug about it if there were anyone around to be smug to. There isn't. He isn't.

Instead he was listening to the Chief yell at FedEx for not having the files from PA and D.C. here, overnight, as the label so dubiously claimed they would be. Detective Reyes, a Hispanic officer of the law in her mid-thirties with soft features and shoulder length dark brown hair, leaned over to the head detective and asked in a whisper if she always fought this hard. He had to smirk.

"If the situation calls for it." He replied quietly.

"I like 'er." Reyes responded, arms crossed across her chest.

"She's alright." Carlton offered tightly. In turn the other officer snorted. He flicked his gaze from his CO to Reyes and back. What the other detective didn't know is that the delivery company was lucky that it was Vick on the other end of the line and not him. He hadn't slept decently in far too long and there hadn't been a Spencer to draw his ire in just as much time. No, the Chief calling was much more pleasant for the couriers. He'd had have a mind to just go to the SB sorting center and pull his standard issue. It had been that kind of morning. For the last forty or so.

But Reyes didn't know that.

Detective Sophia Reyes, lead investigator over ten years ago in the death of Riley, Emma – Riley, Robert and subsequent abduction therein of Riley, Jennifer. Detective Sophia Reyes that had booked a cross-continental flight before Lassiter had finished saying why he was calling. Detective Sophia Reyes whom had guessed the COD on all then three now four victims. Detective Sophia Reyes whom carries a picture in her wallet of Riley, Jennifer and Spencer, Shawn aged 8 and 19 respectively sitting on a motorcycle that was in his department's impound.

The Pennsylvania-a-decade-ago connection had acted as a catalyst, answering more questions then they had previously thought to have. In lieu of official documents, which his commander was trying to hunt down now, he had read the entire series of articles published on the Riley case and then the Predator as a whole. They all had. It didn't take long to figure out that the now four then two victims had been killed in the exact same fashion, so exact that there was no mistaking the identity of the bastard that had committed them. And then once he pulled his head out of his ass he realized the significance of their names. Jennifer, Jen, Jenna, J.J. or rather Jennifer James. Blonde, pretty, green-eyed, eighteen to twenty. It wasn't a pattern until the third victim and by the fourth it was just mocking him.

No, after Guster ran in brandishing his postcards and O'Hara tried out her search engine capabilities it all started to make a sickening sort of sense.

Then Reyes showed up and she explained it all rather quickly. Preteen Predator, brutal murder of at least ten young girls walked into a bookstore at the height of his spree and snapped his modus operandi into bitty pieces. Instead of abducting girls on the cusp of puberty that had no home or family to speak of and torturing them until reaching some precipice ending in their death he had orchestrated the orphaning of Jennifer Riley four years younger than his average victim and then kept her almost three times longer. It was hard to say how much longer she would have lasted, but according to Reyes, Spencer made sure they didn't have to find out.

The detective explained what Guster had known in part; Spencer had worked for the Rileys for a few months but had left before the crash that ended their life. Jenny, the sole survivor, had later been abducted from the hospital where she was being treated. After hitting more than enough dead ends Reyes finally found Shawn, of course that was three weeks after Jenny had gone missing. At first he was meant to be a suspect, but according to Reyes he had turned her department inside out in his search for the girl. It took him nine days.

Nine days for Spencer to find a serial killer that had eluded the F.B.I. for months, one that six different local law enforcement departments had been trying to find. Nine days to find the missing Jenny Riley. After that the detective's details were vague, Jenny was mostly unharmed and incredibly stable psychologically. The Predator was killed during the attempt to rescue the girl. The burning of his remains made it near impossible to identify him. They had Jenny work with a sketch artist but it never yielded any new information in regard to his identity.

So now they waited, waited for Chief Vick to finish berating a clerk at the delivery company, while Guster, Henry and O'Hara looked on grimly from the bullpen, as he and Reyes did the same from the door. What would Spencer say?

-------

Three hours later and one very sharply worded conversation and the files were being piled into the conference room. The Pennsylvania detective took it from there.

"This is about Jenny." Reyes began, circling the conference room as she handed each in the room a copy of the files that they had finally received. She had packed up the paperwork herself, which Lassiter admired. "It has always been about Jenny." She pulled a photo, a larger copy of the one that Lassiter had seen in her wallet when he brought her to the hotel this morning, and pinned it to the board. Next came a sketch of a man in his early thirties, followed by a wedding photograph. The couple was young, very young, and the bride was very pregnant. The detective pulled another board from behind and settled it to the side, one that she and O'Hara had organized before this briefing. It held shots of each of the Predators victims, before and…not.

"The profiler the Fed's used swore up and down that the Predator didn't take Jenny. She wasn't the right age, she wasn't from the right background." Her dark eyes flicked to the image of the girl. "But Shawn, Spencer knew that she was wrong. He thought that Jenny might have reminded him of the person that started his weird fixation to begin with. Like the thing that made him go after these girls, this age, this background. Anyway, he was obsessed with her." She reached into another box and pulled out a series of VHS tapes. As she sorted through them she continued. "The girls that are dying, if it's him, if we were-" Reyes cleared her throat. "It's because he doesn't know Jenny's dead. He wants her back. It's always been about Jenny."

At that moment McNab entered the conference room, dragging a television on a rolling stand with him. "Our resources are sort of limited. So when Jenny's parents died, Dr. Angela Carnegie, the profiler, anyway, she asked if she could work with Jenny. You know, through the tragedy and all that. When Jenny was rescued Shawn and I, we weren't around after the event. So my partner at the time and the doctor took her statements." Her tone took a hard edge. "We didn't know about until…" She handed one of the videotapes to McNab. "You'll see what I mean."

The television flickered to life and McNab put in the videotape. It fizzled and cracked sharply before a pale, dark green wall came into focus. The camera was swung down and finally the subject came into view. Jenny, her blonde hair pulled back from her delicately featured face, green eyes accented by the redness of her lower lids.

"Jenny." A soothing voice said from outside the frame, distinctly feminine. Lassiter assumed it to be the Dr. Carnegie Detective Reyes had mentioned. "I'm going to need to have you answer those questions we talked about now." A pained expression crossed Jenny's face and she fidgeted with her sweatshirt, one that obviously didn't belong to her, he had a strange sensation as he recognized the style to be distinctly Spencer.

"Do we have to?" She pleaded.

"It's very important Jenny." Carnegie answered. The young blonde looked to the camera again and then back to where he assumed the speaker to be.

"I'd really like to go. I don't-I don't remember so much. And I'm really tired. I wanna go now. Please."

"I know Jenny, but you can't go just yet." Papers shuffled in the background. "Now, I want you to tell me about the day you were taken."

Jenny looked down at her fingers and he heard her unlaced sneaker start tapping.

"Jenny."

"He said it wasn't being taken. He said it wasn't stolen."

"What did he call it Jenny?"

"He said…" her voice became slightly watery. "He said that when something didn't have an owner anymore, he said, he said that," she sniffed, and brought her head back up, eyes defiant. Good for her, because Lassiter was ready to jump through time to deck this bitch. "That it was garbage, and he collected people's garbage."

"What happened that day Jenny? The day he 'collected' you." The head detective bit back a wave of nausea.

"I already told you." The girl said quietly. "Can I please just go?" Jenny fiddled with the zipper of her sweatshirt again.

"No, Jenny. Officer Daniels and I have to record your statement. We need to do it now, while everything's still fresh in your mind."

"I might forget by tomorrow?"

"Jenny. I want you to tell me about that day."

Jenny heaved a heavy sigh, her shoulders sinking, and buried her hands in her sweatshirt. The poor kid. This was just cruel and not procedure. "I answer and I can go?" Apparently the so-called 'doctor' gave confirmation because she continued. "They told me to get ready, they said you were picking me up so I could see…so we could go to my parents'…" The little girl shifted yet again. "A man came in to my room at the hospital. He said he was there to take me to you. But I knew he wasn't. I told him…he got angry. He grabbed me and pushed the white stuff they use for bleeding, Nurse Mary said it was gauze; he made me breathe it in. It tasted sweet, like…That's all I remember."

"Good Jenny. Now can you tell me what happened next?"

"No." The girl supplied simply.

"Jenny."

"I wasn't awake. I don't know what happened next. Can I go now?" She pleaded again, her eyes flicking to her right and the camera's left. Carlton smiled at the sarcasm, no wonder Spencer had been so attached to her.

"Jenny. I meant when you were awake. What happened then?" Jenny's body tensed even more and she pulled the sweatshirt tighter.

"But I already told you." She whispered, her voice shaking. For some reason his hand went for his sidearm.

"Jenny."

"Please."

"I need you to tell me what happened when you woke up Jenny."

"I-I" she looked down to her hands that rested on the table. Her sleeves fell far past her fingertips. "I woke up in," she picked at the table. "In a room in his house. Like a dollhouse. He left me alone for a really long time. I don't know, I fell asleep a lot." Her green eyes flicked towards the right again, maybe it was the door, her way out. "I woke up one time and he was there. He likes to watch people sleep. They don't lie when they sleep."

"That's good Jenny. Very good. Keep going." He heard scribbling in the background. The psychologist sounded…gleeful, and he felt his anger surge.

Jenny swallowed and wiped her cheeks. "He likes to talk. If you listen really quiet he doesn't get so mad so much. He just told me lots of things. He brought me food sometimes, and talked more. He let me use the bathroom if I said please and thank you enough. He doesn't like it when you forget." She sniffed again. "He talked about how people don't, don't appreciate things, how they throw things away when they don't have an owner. That's why he collected them, so they wouldn't be garbage anymore."

"Is that why he 'collected' you Jenny?"

"He told me the night before, he said that, that my parents, they didn't appreciate me. Like him. He saw, and he got angry. He said he wanted to take me away, but you can't take something from someone who owns it, that's stealing. So he, he" her chin shook and she breathed in deeply. "He made it so nobody owned me anymore." Half of the room gasped, his partner bit her lip.

"I want you to tell me about before that night Jenny."

"I just said." The girl remarked, a pleading tone in her voice. "He liked to talk. He talks about things all the time. I got to eat in the morning; he said breakfast is the most important meal of the day. He gives you cereal sometimes, or pancakes, or toast with eggs. He doesn't like bacon. Pigs aren't right." Jenny sucked in a shaky breath. She wasn't the only one.

"What else Jenny?"

"He-he gets mad when you don't remember. The other girls he saved, they didn't listen. They would ask for things they shouldn't want, bad things, things that liars like, like bacon. They weren't thankful. They didn't appreciate him. Just like everyone else. I tried to remember." Jenny looked down at her lap. "He doesn't get so mad when you remember."

"What happened when you didn't remember Jenny?"

This time the girl didn't look up; she pulled her legs up onto her chair, tight against her chest, and folded her arms on top.

"Jenny? What happened when you didn't remember?"

She looked back at the speaker, her face solemn. "He gets really mad."

"What did he do when he was mad?"

Jenny played with her shoes and a slightly aggravated sigh came from behind the camera. It was a damned good thing this guy was Reyes' ex-partner, because Lassiter might have been compelled to shoot him had he come along.

"He makes sure you don't want to forget ever again." Jenny whispered.

"In the basement?" The girl didn't answer. "Jenny. Tell me about the basement."

The girl pulled her legs tighter into herself and buried her face in her arms. Carlton had never wanted to save someone quite so much. How much longer had this gone on? Why hadn't someone stopped them?

"Jenny."

She sighed and looked longingly towards what he was sure could only be the door, "You already made me show you when we were there. I want to go now. I told you everything else." His fingers curled around the arms of his chair, knuckles white. She had already filled out a statement and they were still putting her through this?

"Jenny. I am not asking again. Tell me about the basement." Carnegie's tone was cold, demanding.

"Can't I just call-"

"Jenny." The doctor interrupted, it was obvious that she was pissed.

Apparently the frustration was enough to push the Jenny back from the edge because she put her legs down, and sat up straight. "I told you. I told you over and over. The basement is where you go when you forget. He takes you there on bad days. He takes you when you don't listen." She crossed her arms over her chest and kicked her heel against the leg of her chair. "But I told you that. And you wrote it down. I told you over and over and I don't want to do this anymore. I want to go see-"

"Jenny." The woman cut her off, not bothering to contain her irritation any longer. "The officer and I need to officially record your statement. It's extremely important. I do not think we need to explain this again. Now I want you to tell me more about the basement."

Jenny set her jaw and it was obvious that her eyes were tearing, though she seemed to be unwilling to allow them to fall. She was a tough kid. He didn't need a psychologist or Reyes to tell him that. Here she was, after being held captive for four weeks, after losing her parents, and she was still trying to be strong. He felt a visceral sort of rage that he knew only came when children were threatened, people who couldn't protect themselves from sadistic predators like this. "I thought that paper you made me sign was my statement." She answered quietly and defiant and he internally grinned in her favor. She had definitely spent time with Spencer.

"Jenny. I wasn't asking. Now, tell me about the basement." Carnegie ground out.

When the little girl continued she kept her stance rigid and her voice low, her eyes locked in front of her, right about where Lassiter was sure the doctor stood. "He takes you to the basement when you forget. When you don't appreciate. When you lie. On the bad days. He takes you there and teaches you lessons. So that you won't forget. You shouldn't forget." Her sneaker bounced off the steel leg in rhythm with her words. "And I told you when we were there. I told you over and over. I'm tired of talking. I want to go now. You took so many pictures. You asked me so many times. I just want to go see-"

"Jenny."

The blonde heaved a heavy sigh and kept on her beat. "He helps you remember in lots of ways. I don't remember most of it. There are special drinks he makes sometimes before. It makes it harder to remember. Sometimes he takes you to the chair; sometimes he leaves you in there. I think he forgets sometimes too." Jenny pulled her sweatshirt back over her hands and then folded her arms again. "I think he forgets because sometimes I'd be there for really long and it wasn't even for a really, really bad thing." Next to him he thought he heard O'Hara stifle something akin to the disgust he felt himself.

"How long did he forget you for Jenny?"

"I don't know. I didn't have my watch. He broke it when he came to get me." Score another for the eight-year-old, he thought, take that Nurse Ratchet.

"How long did it seem Jenny?"

"It _seemed_ really, really long." Jenny sniffed and continued to reflect her shoe off the chair. Adding another bite of wit.

"Jenny."

"I don't know. He doesn't like windows. The dollhouse didn't have any. The basement doesn't have any either. I know I would sleep a lot. I think it was for days though. That's what he said one time. That he couldn't keep, couldn't 'keep this up'. That he'd lose, he'd lose something if did it again, two days was too long. I think that's what he said. Then he said he was sorry that he didn't give me breakfast for so long and he put me back to sleep. That wasn't so long ago, not before…" She trailed and cast her eyes to the table.

"Jenny, I'd like to talk about your parents now."

If Carlton thought he felt for this little girl before, this brave little girl that was being so strong in the face of too many enemies he hadn't realized the depth of which he could so. The flicker of raw pain, abrupt angst, complete and total agony that registered on her small features would have been enough for any man to wage war on her behalf. As it was he was seriously considering misappropriating department resources and tracking Dr. Angela Carnegie down for a little chat.

"Whu-why do you want to talk about… why?" Jenny asked, it was clear she had no idea why her questioner, no interrogator that was much more accurate, was being so cruel, her small voice shook. She finally lost the battle she had waged through to whole of the interview and quick tears leaked from her eyes.

"It's important Jenny." Angela responded simply, her tone was even, almost light.

"Please." The little girl whispered. "I can't-I-I." A small sob shook her frame. "I'm so tired, please." She wiped furiously at the onslaught of tears. "I just want to go see Shawn. I promised."

"I'd like you tell me about the day they died Jenny." Carnegie continued, completely unaffected by the girl's pleas.

Jenny's whole body trembled, tears poured down her cheeks. "I promised I would be there when he woke up. I promised." Carlton would never admit as much to any living being but he couldn't help the prickling he felt at the bridge of his nose. "Please," her watery voice plied, "I truh-I tried to answer all-all your questions. But I-I," she whimpered. "I just want to go see Shawn. I can't-I can't anymore. Please. Can't I just go see Shawn?"

"I don't think that's necessary Jenny." Carnegie replied, the psychologist sounded as if her spirits were as high as ever.

Jenny quivered from head to foot, her pale face burning where the tears had streaked by to her chin. She was obviously fighting with all she had left to keep from completely breaking down. "Please." She tried again, voice and visage begging with all she could muster. "Please." She whispered.

Suddenly, enough so that everyone in the room except Reyes jumped, the door was visible on screen, someone having thrown in open in great haste. A much younger Reyes appeared in frame, her dark hair was shorter then, cropped closely, and she was sporting a decent looking gash along the length of her hairline as well as a sling and heavily bandaged right arm.

"What the hell are you doing?!" The detective cried, she quickly kneeled at Jenny's side, rubbing the crushed blonde's back. "What the hell do you think you're doing doctor?" She spit out as Jenny buried her face in her knees again. "And you Daniels!" Reyes continued, her gaze shifting to behind the camera. "You son of bitch how could you!" Next to her Jenny was silent but still shaking. "I'll have you badge you sadistic bastard. And you," Reyes rounded on the doctor who was still out of the shot. "You won't be able to work as bartender by the time I'm done with you. Shut that damn thing off Daniels!"

The screen flickered before virtual snow was the only thing left.

"After that," the elder female detective began, her voice low, "Daniels got put out on his ass and I have no idea what they did to that… doctor but I know it wasn't pretty." Her smile was humorless. "My chief promised that much."

"What happened to the little girl?" He was surprised to hear Henry's gravelly voice. The retired officer seemed as shaken as he felt.

"Spenc-Shawn was granted temporary custody while he recovered."

"Recovered?" It was O'Hara that interjected.

"He was a little…banged up after, everything that went down." Reyes answered. "Jenny was placed into a foster home after that. I think they were friends from college, of her parents." The woman shifted her weight. "I heard from Shawn now and then, he'd give me updates on her and everything. He sent postcards from…" a small smile played on her lips. "Everywhere." She cleared her throat again. "I didn't see Jenny again until I got the call about the accident." Her gaze was far off as she spoke. "It was ruled a suicide, same stretch of road, same turn off as her…I guess after everything she went through." Reyes shrugged.

"So, are we assuming this Predator guy is still alive and whoever you had ten years ago…" The youngest detective started.

"Was a decoy." Reyes concluded, her eyes on Lassiter, as were his partner's. He looked to his chief. It didn't take many nonverbal communications for them to realize they were in agreement.

"I'm not ready to release a statement saying too much detectives." Vick responded. "I am however, preparing a statement advising that all girls that fit the profile start taking extra precautions. The universities should be able to take it from there." She stood, taking the file with her. "Detective Reyes, I understand that this was your case ten years ago,"

"But you want you people on point because it's your man that's missing and we don't have hard evidence that it's might perp that did it."

Karen's lips quirked. "Exactly." She paused. "That doesn't mean that they couldn't use your help if you're willing to provide it."

Reyes cast her eyes downward. "Actually Chief, I couldn't do much more good here."

"I'm sorry?"

"It _was_ my case." Reyes began, "On paper."

"I'm not sure I understand detective."

"When you're done looking through all the files I sent, you'll understand what I mean ma'am." The brunette continued. "We were-are-a small town. Surrounded by more small towns, spread pretty far apart." Her tone was sheepish, but resolved. "The girls didn't get much news coverage, not really, not until the F.B.I. got involved and by then…No one knew how big it was, not until someone from one of the other stations called mine asking if we'd noticed the connection. We didn't have the resources or…then the Feds came and it just got a hell of a lot worse." She sighed heavily. "The Riley case was mine on paper. Everything I can tell you is in those files though. It was Sha-Spencer's case. He did what they couldn't do, what we couldn't do. He and Jenny were the only people that knew what happened. And now, he's it."

"A green detective in a small town that deals with stolen bicycles, not dead teenagers." Henry supplied.

"Sir." Reyes acknowledged.

"I see." Vick said quietly.

"Why come at all then detective?" Guster asked. It was the first time Lassiter had personally heard him speak since his show and the day before.

Reyes looked at a loss for what to say next. "I guess I thought…" She shook her head. "I don't know what I thought." A pause. "I just didn't want this story to be told by the file. It's too… I don't know. But Shawn, he was always so far ahead of the rest of us. Like he'd read the book twice and we'd **just** seen the movie trailer." She pulled at her jacket. "Maybe it's that way with you guys too it just-"

"Exactly!" Lassiter interrupted, slamming a hand on the conference room table. The whole room jumped. "Guster," Carlton continued undeterred, rounding on the salesman. "Didn't you say that Spencer was acting strange, even for Spencer, the last time you talked to him?"

"Uh, yeah sort of, I mean it was like…" Gus trailed.

"Like he knew something was going to happen." Lassiter offered. "Like he always knows something's going to happen." The detective grabbed a pen and the nearest blank legal pad, throwing both to psychic's best friend. "Write down everything you can remember." He grabbed another, this time he tossed to his partner. "O'Hara, you too."

"What are thinking Lassiter?" Vick asked.

"He thinks Shawn left clues so they'd still be able to figure this out if something happened to him." Henry supplied, it was the first time anyone had seen anything akin to hope on his face in over a month.

Somewhere in there Reyes slipped out. It was supposed to be for a cup of coffee.

--------

Lassiter was a genius. Or at least a genius in the sense that he was smart enough to realize that Shawn was smart enough to realize that he might be taken out of commission. After they spent two hours trying to remember every detail of the last conversations each had had with the missing consultant they finally made some headway. This time however it was Henry that made the find.

He took one look at the scribbling on each pad and after taking the pen from Juliet's hand he started circling. "He would have said things that you wouldn't forget. Even if they didn't seem important, they'd be strange enough for even you to remember."

Gus was the only one that knew exactly what Mr. Spencer meant. He wondered if it would matter, if they'd have to mention that Shawn wasn't psychic, he was just better than everyone else and had some crazy memory mojo. Then again if, **when** he got back Shawn would be pissed he'd blown his cover.

"Yeah, but how do we know what it all means. I get it, the thing about Seattle Life magazine, the Russian painter Aimee," Lassiter turned his head to decipher Juliet's script, "whatever and the big case he was going to work on with Guster." He sighed. "But we don't know what it means."

Henry was already across the room, pulling the top off of one of the file boxes Reyes had brought. "So we start digging Lassiter and we find what Shawn was trying tell us." He slid the box down the conference room table; the head detective stopped it short of the edge.

"I guess we could do that."

-------

**A/N:** I know that's it's been a not so much hyperbolic forever since I updated. No excuses I just couldn't find it. In fact I'm still not sure I have it. This chapter is not what I would want to give you guys after a year and change. The next one hopefully will be. I'm not going to jinx this and say when it will be up but I will say that Shawn will be in nearly the entire thing. In the present this time. A preview you ask? Well, alright...

_He skipped over the shock of seeing his own face for the first time and focused instead on his newest unsettling discovery._

Humble thanks and lots of cookies,

seren_mercury


	8. Chapter 7: The House Always Wins

**A/N:** Here as promised is the next chapter. As a peace offering for the total lack of anything worth reading in the previous one I give you a nice big dose of angst! Okay so the guy at the store made it sound way more exciting when I bought it for you guys. *le sigh*

**Disclaimer:** I don't own what you recognize.

**Chapter Seven:** The House Always Wins (2,459)

"I wasn't breaking in." The young girl cried as a uniformed officer pushed her further into the precinct. "How many times do I have to tell you Beefy McManwhich I was- Ow. Ow. Ow." Karen raised an eyebrow as a girl began to sarcastically comment on the intelligence quotient of the policeman that was bringing her in. She couldn't be a day older than twenty-five, though the references she was making to Officer Fargo's hairstyle were almost as old.

Vick was quite shocked when he stopped in front of her open door, giving the brunette a slight push inside, and earning a glare in response. "You could have just asked." She retaliated, taking another step in. "I'd sit but these handcuffs aren't really conducive to-"

"I caught her breaking in to-" Fargo began to interrupt, but the girl disagreed.

"I told you a hundred times-which really should have sunk into your Cro-Magnon skull my now-I was lost. It's not breaking and entering when you're just looking for a place to pee!" She rounded on the officer. "Or were you absent that day at the Academy. Maybe it was the same day they covered excessive force."

Karen raised her hand when Fargo opened his mouth. "You will have to respect my officers while in my station Miss- ("Roman." The girl replied quietly.) Miss Roman. Which means allowing him to finish his sentences. At which time we'll allow for your rebuttal." The police chief watched as the gears turned behind the brunette's eyes. Finally she sighed and turned back to Fargo.

"She was breaking in-" another glare and huff, "to Spencer's apartment building. You told me any suspicious activity I saw when on patrol over there should be brought to your attention." He gave the girl another small shove. "Attention."

"I was looking for a bathroom." The girl grumbled. "Not masterminding a terrorist attack." The radio Fargo wore squawked, a domestic disturbance call on his beat.

"Chief, if-"

"You can go Fargo." He gave one last look to the handcuffed girl and started out. "And send Detective Lassiter and Detective O'Hara in here on your way out." She paused and turned to the girl. "Now, Miss Roman, may I ask why you were breaking into that particular apartment building?"

"Yes. Obviously I'm stalking someone the boys in blue are keen are keeping safe." Miss Roman answered, leaning awkwardly against the glass wall. "After I abducted this mysterious individual, with all of the might of my one hundred and twenty seven pounds, I planned to proposition them for their TiVO in exchange for their release. They have three seasons of America's Next Top Model. I couldn't resist." Karen leaned back against her desk and quirked an eyebrow. The younger woman sighed. "I could be a crazed stalker sure, but that just takes so much time and dedication. I'm really not capable of that kind of follow through. Honestly, the only thing I'm guilty of is a weak bladder."

Lassiter and O'Hara arrived just as she finished talking. She glanced at the two, and once again Vick could see her mind at work. Despite her obvious penchant for sarcasm, the police chief couldn't deny that there was an inherent intelligence in her gaze.

"Chief?" Juliet asked cautiously, she and her partner sizing up the brunette.

"Detectives, I'd like you meet Miss Roman." She gestured to the girl, and then back. "Miss Roman, Detectives-"

"Lassiter and O'Hara, I n-heard you." Her tone was shockingly polite.

"Miss Roman would like us to believe that she was caught breaking and entering an apartment building in search of-"

"A bathroom." Roman muttered under her breath. "So very nefarious."

"You'll have your turn Miss Roman." Vick interjected quickly silencing her.

"Chief I think we have more…important things to be dealing with right about now." Lassiter applied although his face darkened when he caught the brunette rolling her eyes. "We still don't know where Reyes went and we've just started-"

"Detective, Miss Roman was breaking into Mr. Spencer's apartment building." Now both officers rounded quickly on the girl and she had the sense to looked shocked.

"Woah." The girl offered, backing further into the office, "I promise next time I will just hold it. I had no idea you guys took restrooms so seriously in California."

-----------

When he woke up his head was pounding worse than any hangover he could…

Worse than any…

It was…

He blinked, wincing as he did so. He searched his hands, his chest, looked at the jeans he was wearing, the blue polo shirt. It wasn't familiar. In fact none of it was familiar. That whole saying about knowing something like the back of his hand? It officially lost all effect. He had no recollection of the back of his hand. A nice enough appendage to be sure, from the well kempt nail beds to the slender digits, but it might as well have been that of a stranger.

His gaze flickered across the rest of the room and he wondered why an internal voice registered the available exit, the possible weapon choices and lastly the lack of immediate threat. It took far more effort than he would assume should be necessary, but had no real prior evidence to corroborate, to finally sit up. His abdominal muscles protested, as did his still throbbing head. He swiveled his feet to the floor and bounced once on the bed before actually standing. His lips quirked. At least his sneakers were comfy.

Finally he swept over the space again, by now he was confident that he was in a bedroom in an apartment. The way the floor responded to his footfalls told him as much. He called out, surprised by the rasp that followed. He hadn't realized that his throat was sore until then. Either way he didn't receive an answer, so he started picking through the few items littered on the dresser, the clothes in the closet, he even checked under the mattress.

Memory or no, it didn't take a lot of deductive reasoning to figure out that this room? It was his. The shoes tucked all along the floor of the closet were his size, as was the random assortment of clothing. The light on the nightstand was his arm length away from the edge of the bed. The canvas on the far wall was hung just above his own height, as high up as would have been comfortable for him to secure the work without vertical assistance.

He tried to swallow the panic that threatened to consume him as it became increasingly clear as time passed that despite being in (what should have been) familiar surroundings his memories were not flooding back. There was no spark, no trigger. This place felt as alien as his hand. He let his knees give way as the throbbing suddenly flared and clutched at the corner of the bedspread, gasping through the pain.

He let it pass before attempting to stand again, placing a tentative hand on the seeming source. A shudder rocked through him as his fingertips found unmistakable stitching amid the sharply buzzed hair. He nearly ran, uncooperative musculature or no, to the door outside his own. Thankful to find that he had been right to assume that it would be the bathroom, and that the medicine cabinet front was mirrored.

He skipped over the shock of seeing his own face for the first time and focused instead on his newest unsettling discovery. Ugly, black, precision stitching that ran from his temple to the base of his skull, another did the same on the opposite side.

He can't remember if he's thrown up in this toilet before.

It seems like a good enough time to start if he hasn't.

----------

Lassiter sat across from the suspect with a pen poised. "So Miss Roman, do you have a first name."

"Nope, my parents went with the whole symbol idea. It's impossible to pronounce unless you're fluent in Scandinavian chant languages."

"All you're doing is prolonging the inevitable Miss Roman, we already ran your prints so just-"

There was something particularly grating about the way the girl picked at her nail beds with a bored expression on her face. "Oh was that what all the ink was for? Here I thought we'd just gotten to the finger painting section of the arresting. Damn. I was going to make me a collage."

The head detective sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Alright look, you can sit there and be cute but you can't be arraigned until tomorrow so you're stuck here either way. It's up to you how comfortably."

Before she could fashion another sharply worded retort his partner entered with her file. He smiled triumphantly at the would-be felon, who finally squirmed just a bit. "Alright, Amelia." He continued as he scanned the print out.

Her eyes rolled again as she said, "Amy."

His smiled widened and he continued to read from the sheet, "_Amelia_ Roman of Seattle, Washington. U-Dub student of…Art History. Isn't that nice." Carlton caught her gaze and grinned, she returned an equally wide and sarcastic smile. "Wait, what?" His eyes shot to O'Hara. She had gone as pale as he felt.

"Oh no, don't tell me you're an alum." Amelia quipped with false trepidation but her laugh faltered as she saw the partners' faces lose color.

--------------

After he finished testing the plumbing he dug through the rest of the apartment. The same voice telling him that the place had been swept clean-_sterilized_-and prompting him to be particularly careful.

After searching for an hour he didn't find a damn thing.

No wallet, no cell phone, no ID, not even a prom picture. He'd been awake for almost three hours and he couldn't even find his own name. Not on a lease agreement, not on a cable bill, not even scrawled in his underwear. He checked.

Besides an impressive collection of movies that were released prior to nineteen ninety, a limited assortment of books that ranged from Vonnegut to Eliot and a pineapple phone he hadn't found anything useful. He tried to ignore the shaking of his stranger hands as he looked around the residence again in bleak hope.

Questions threatened to cause another wave of experimentation involving porcelain.

What was his name?

Why couldn't he remember his damn name?

What happened to his head?

Why wasn't there more…stuff here?

Where was here?

His eyes stung, he scrubbed his face with hands to deter the sensation.

He needed answers and he wasn't getting them here. After talking himself out of it about six times he made either the best or worst decision in his life. Well his life for the last few hours anyway, he couldn't cast judgment on whatever had happened before.

He picked up the pineapple phone that hadn't been disconnected, which he thought was odd considering that the absence of food in the fridge (it was even unplugged) indicted that no one had stayed here in a while, and dialed a number he didn't need a past to know.

----------

Ten minutes later and they still hadn't moved from the corner of the interrogation room where they'd been whispering fervently ever since they'd realized. "Carlton it's impossible. He had to have known. She's connected somehow." O'Hara insisted, eyes moving from his face to their captive.

"Don't take this the wrong way because obviously I'm the novice here but, aren't you supposed to interrogate the arrestee," Roman jangled her cuffed wrists, "in this situation. Not each other."

Both detectives rounded on the girl, "Quiet!"

Once their attention was no longer on her she let her head fall onto the tabletop with a deep sigh. "Or not."

"So Spencer has one last chance to tell us all something before he goes MIA and he…" Carlton pointed to Roman. "Leads us to a twenty-two year old art student from Washington?"

"Hey I just turned twenty-three." Amelia threw in from across the room.

"Congratulations." Lassiter bit back, never turning from Juliet.

Roman leaned forward and added, "And it's Art History." This time he answered her with a quick glare.

"Well I'm not saying I understand but there is no way it's just a coincidence." The blonde confirmed when Lassiter turned back. "Somehow this girl has something to do with Shawn going missing."

-----------

"Santa Barbara Emergency Response please state your name, location and emergency."

"Well it's kind of all one answer."

"Sir, I'm going to need you to tell me-"

"Yeah I'm not actually being purposely ridiculous, I'm serious. Which feels a little wrong so if we could just skip-"

"Sir do you have an emergency?"

"Can anyone **have** an emergency? I mean it's not like a sandwich or a puppy."

"Sir!"

"Sorry, right, I really don't know the answer to…well any of those things. That's why I'm calling."

"Sir?"

"I don't know my name or where I am. Well obviously I'm in some apartment on the third floor in Santa Barbara but after that it's all kind of up in the air. That's my emergency. Well that and besides Tony's Pizza on Peach Street this is the only phone number I know s-"

"Sir, you do realize that calling the Emergency Response Line for any reason other than an emergency will result in a fine and possibly criminal charges?"

"Yes because I don't know about you but dialing 9-1-1 and faking amnesia is how I get my kicks."

"Are you being sarcastic sir?"

"Not on the emergency response line, that could result in criminal charges."

"Sir there is no reason to be short with me. If you will just give me your-"

"What would get this call traced?"

"Sir?"

"I have a bomb/kitten hostage/hand grenade/rusty nail/horde of rabid parakeets and unless someone shows up to stop me I'm not afraid to use them."

"Sir, what exactly-"

"That's it the kitten's going to get it!"

"Sir I'd like you to stay calm and stay on the line while –Sir? – Sir?"

---------

"He must have known somehow, she's obviously connected and we just need-" O'Hara was cut off by the door opening abruptly.

Their prisoner threw her head back and groaned, "Thank god."

"McNab make it quick we just-" Lassiter started.

"Sir, someone called 911 from Shawn's apartment. Apparently they threatened, well," The officer chuckled just a bit, "it was a little silly but-"

The detectives rushed through the door before he could finish. He didn't seem to mind though if the goofy grin he was wearing was any indication. He slammed the door shut in his haste and followed them out.

Amelia just gaped at the two-way mirror. "Seriously what does a girl have to do around here to be questioned properly?"

---------

Reyes never wanted to be counted among the weak. She never meant to leave, hadn't meant to dig out the rental car keys and head for the parking lot. But she had and wasn't it just her luck that karma had went and been instantaneous.

It was part of the testimony that had always stuck with her. Little Jenny Riley talking about the sickeningly sweet taste of chloroform. She never been much of a student of literature so was this irony? Then again she was familiar with justice. And maybe this was what she deserved.

---------

Yes, I really am that evil. But hey it's a fresh chapter and it didn't take me a year! Woo! Or, perhaps not something to woo about eh? Well, next chapter is on a'waitin' so I'll just go work on that yes? Thought so.


	9. Chapter 8: Expired Warranties

**A/N:** The deal with this one, I had it almost totally written and then had a mini-epiphany and realized that it simply wasn't good enough for you guys and I re-wrote well…all of it. I do that sometimes. But I hope you guys enjoy this much better version.

And last thing, as an author there is a bit where I'm going to fail you guys, see Shawn would have been like ten or eleven when I was born so a lot of the references they make I can understand but won't come to me as readily so I'm trying to keep up the eighties love but if I don't see the opportunities feel free to let me know.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own what you recognize.

**Chapter Eight:** Expired Warranties and Quarter-Hearted Guarantees

He's not ready he realizes when the pounding on the door starts. He's not ready because he doesn't know and how could he not know and there's this constant pain shooting through his head and he has these stitches and this swept apartment and it's all so dangerous and not alright and he's not ready.

He regrets ever picking up the phone, maybe he should have run, should have found a place, a safe place and tried to reconstruct memories before deciding to involve the law. What if he was some kind of something he shouldn't be and all he had done was lead the cops right to his door. The door. Not his door. Could be his door. Isn't his door. Door.

What if the person that had done this to him was waiting on the other side? What if he had just painted a target on his back? What if they could find him all over again and? What if… He felt the panic start to rise higher and higher and the pain climbed on its heels. It was like he was almost on the edge of something that might matter and his mind couldn't see it through the haze of piercing pain.

His knees started to give way again. He couldn't handle all of this. He shouldn't have called them, he should have given himself more time but the not knowing was eating at him-and he had some serious curiosity issues to begin with he could tell without being exacerbated by knowing absolutely nothing-and now his head, his head, his… he couldn't, it wasn't it…

He wanted to run, he needed to run, as if he was suddenly claustrophobic and couldn't breathe in so small a space. He needed to get out of here. Except his legs weren't working and they were still pounding on the door and now the handle was jiggling and he couldn't catch his breath. He needed to run. Now.

* * *

"_Detective._" God that voice sounded familiar. "_Detective." _It whispered again and her stomach turned. "_Tsk. Tsk. Sleeping on the job. What would your superiors think?_" Something cold…so cold…

Her eyes snapped open, wild and terrified. She knew why that voice was familiar now. "It's you." She spit out.

"_It has always been me detective."_ The voice answered, still disembodied.

"Well you're a little late. Spencer's been missing for weeks. And Jenny died five years ago." She shot back to the dark, trying to sound defiant.

"_No she didn't! I know you're lying!_" Sophia could hear the anger at her implication. "_You are all liars. Such sweet innocent things that always grow into lies. That's why I had to save her_." Suddenly the light flicked on and here he was in front of her. Every bit the monster she remembered. "I will save her! You can't stop me!"

Reyes flinched. "Well…then…" She searched for an out, any out. "Maybe, maybe I could help you then. Right?" She hated that her voice shook. "I could help you find her. I'm a cop I could-"

He grinned then and her heart stopped. "Oh detective. Why do you think you I brought here?" He moved too close to her. "You already are."

She didn't get the chance to scream very much. He's a little disappointed.

* * *

"O'Hara move." Carlton gestured to the side of the door she had been trying to open by sheer force of desperation. It wasn't working. When she was clear he lifted one long leg and slammed his foot with all the strength he could muster right above the handle and lock. It took another solid kick before the door jam on the other side split.

Protocol dictates that he takes point and he's glad that O'Hara remembered that even given the circumstance. They both draw their sidearm and enter, wary and tense with nervous energy. It's been seven weeks, seven weeks and now it's all come down to a decidedly Spencer 911 call and this apartment. Except none of it has made any sense. If Spencer were in decent enough shape to dial a phone why did he call the EMTs? Why not them directly? Or Guster? Something was very off about the whole thing.

They cleared the kitchen and then the living room; both were absent of their missing resident pain-in-the-ass. He started to wonder if this was all another elaborate set-up before the eventual letdown. His partner might not be able to take another failed lead and Guster and Henry were…

There was clattering in the bathroom. His eyes met O'Hara's and she understood. He waited for her fingers to wrap around the handle of the door, positioning himself directly in front of it before giving her the go-ahead. His gun almost slipped from his grip when it swung open.

There in the middle of the tiled floor was an unconscious Shawn Spencer, about ten pounds too thin, missing inches of his deified locks and sporting proficient surgical seams, stark and black against his scalp. He felt his stomach protest against that lunch he didn't have and allowed for falling to his knees next to the younger man. O'Hara was still standing in the doorway shell-shocked.

"Carlton…" She whispered. And he knew. He didn't want to know. He wanted to pretend he didn't, that he couldn't begin to understand. He had wished maiming on Spencer more times than even he wanted to count but that was always with him doing the maiming. At the end of the day Spencer was _his _pain in the ass psychic and he was the only one allowed to…

Lassiter cleared his throat and saved himself the trouble of checking for a pulse, the steady rise and fall of the chest alleviated at least that concern. He was about to ask Juliet to call it in but she was already pulling out her phone. "Don't-" He started and then tore his gaze from Spencer to meet hers again. "Don't give them a name, Henry and Guster might be-" He struggled for the right way to say this. "I think it'd be better if they didn't hear it over the ban."

She nodded and he went back to staring at all the things wrong with this picture.

* * *

The first thing that was almost ripped out was the IV, apparently they didn't come in 'comfortable', but at least they hadn't shoved him into one of those ridiculous gowns that were way too breezy for any garment that wasn't a kilt. With a kilt it was more than acceptable because kilts, they were awesome. You could totally work a kilt into a genius pick-up, but a hospital gown? Please. That only worked the sympathy angle and that was for people who were lazy. Er. Whatever.

He moved on from the IV because there was probably a reason they were throwing that much saline into his veins and wasn't that reassuring, and settled on checking out his new digs. He didn't want to start playing with buttons, okay he totally did, but that might mean a whole team of people coming in here with **questions** and he really wanted to put some distance between that and himself.

He shifted as minimally as possible and tried to get an eye around the corner of his curtain. He saw something in that telltale blue, male, bigger than was necessary and-and crap had totally seen him. Damnit. He fell back onto the pillow and tried to look as innocent and drug-induced as possible. It wasn't working.

The officer slid the curtain to the side to make room for himself, he could tell from the sound it was an extra ten inches than he would have needed. Which was almost something to snicker over but he was very busy pretending he wasn't conscious and even he had enough restraint for that. Maybe. At least right now. And seriously what kind of person bounced between terrified for their life and randomly interjecting sarcastic commentary? What was wrong with him?

"I may not be a detective Spencer but I know people don't squirm that much when they're knocked out." The officer began with slight humor and a strange familiarity that was switching him back to the flight vs. snark. "Spencer." He rested a tentative hand on the bed near his shoulder. It wasn't that he decided on it, but he flinched. And then there was really no point to the charade beyond the charade and whatever natural inclination he felt towards the theatrics of it was squashed.

"Jesus, man, you sure know how make an entrance." The officer continued when he opened his eyes and slid back against the bed.

"I'll have to take your word on that." It was off his lips before he could even give thought to the quip.

The other man chuckled. "Well, other than that new haircut and fancy post-op work it looks like not too much has changed." He shot a look over his shoulder. "I guess I should call in the doctors and Lassiter and O'Hara. Your dad and Guster aren't here yet, they only brought you in fifteen minutes ago." He straightened. "They grabbed me on the way out, you need a protection detail until they figure out what's what, I mean first that serial killer leaving all those crazy notes and then that snappy chick that broke into your building. Seriously man, what happened to you?"

The cop must have noticed that his breathing started to hitch and the heart rate monitor accelerated far past normal. Waking up and not knowing your name was one thing, waking up and not knowing your name and then passing out and then waking up again in a hospital and still not knowing your name only to be accosted by an officer of the law who totally knew who you were and was apparently your protection against at least a serial killer and some woman with a penchant for breaking and entering was something else entirely. Maybe. He chose flight, definitely flight.

But he had been right about the button pushing. The machines reacted rather noisily to his hasty removal of their attachments; of course there was also the giant man with the badge and gun in his way too.

The pain in his head started to swell again but he pushed it away, he didn't have time for it. He needn't to get the hell out of here. Again. There was a pattern developing now.

"Woah, man. Calm down." The burly officer implored, hands outstretched in what was meant to be a calming gesture. "Spencer relax, you're okay man. It's alright." He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry at that, maybe both. Of course no one else would understand why it was so damn funny.

"Relax? Relax?" He asked incredulously. "I wake up in a hospital room with He-Man on my protection detail because someone broke into what is apparently my apartment building and there's a serial killer, just for kicks, I can't remember how I take my coffee, if I drink coffee, or my own damn name and you want me to relax? Relax? There was saline in my IV not Xanax."

"It's Spencer." He answered quietly, shock washing off his features and replaced with a kind of sad comprehension.

"What?"

"I don't know if I should be the one to tell you. I mean Guster or O'Hara, maybe, but…" He cleared his throat. "Shawn. Shawn Spencer." He pointed to the nameplate above his pocket. "I'm John Fargo. We're on the department's baseball team."

"I'm…" He couldn't…there wasn't… "Shawn?" Fargo nodded. "Am I a…" He nodded to the badge. John chuckled.

"No, definitely not. You're a-a consultant. Mostly. Sort of, it's kind of, well, it's complicated."

"Ah." Shawn replied. Shawn. Shawn Spencer. His gaze traveled to his hands, to the blinking machines and back. "Shawn." He continued in a whisper, testing the name out on his tongue. "Shawn Spencer."

There suddenly wasn't much to say. Fargo wasn't going to know his birthday or if he was allergic to peanuts, whether or not he'd gone to prom or if he put salt on his French-fries. In actuality he didn't want to ask those things even given the opportunity. He wanted to know them without having to rely on someone's second hand knowledge. Paper or plastic? Batman or Superman? Molly Ringwald or Ally Sheedy? Although, why hadn't they been interrupted by medical staff? The monitors were still angrily beeping away.

As if in answer suddenly two more law enforcement officials burst in the door and nearly ran towards them. Fargo stood quickly in their path to him before either could speak and gestured to them in turn, "Shawn these are Detectives Carlton Lassiter and Juliet O'Hara." Both flashed glances at him, instantly wary. Fargo kept his place in-between the detectives and Shawn.

Shawn smiled in what he hoped was a charming enough way and waved a hand. "Hello. Shawn Spencer. Amnesiac."

That was when the blonde sort of hiccup-gasped and the dude with her opened and closed his mouth a few times. It was a good awkward twenty-seven seconds before finally the taller man spoke, "Spencer if you're trying to get me to fall for one of your- your-" But then the words died on his lips. Shawn knew why, he may not know if preferred licorice to gummy bears but it was pretty obvious that the ugly marring mirrored on both sides of his skull was unsettling. To say the absolute least, because dude, seriously? Not. Cool.

"I know. I know." Shawn began with a smirk that felt hopelessly familiar, "You're wondering where you can get a fabulous style like this right?" His fingers lightly traced the right set. "I'd be happy to share, except you know, for the life of me I can't seem to remember where I had it done. That and when you're starting a trend you have to be more selective with who you let in on the ground floor. That's how Vanilla Ice was born."

Lassiter stared at him for a few seconds before rounding on Fargo. "So he doesn't remember anything that happened for the last seven weeks?"

"No last Tuesday is very clear." Shawn muttered sarcastically as Fargo replied, "Try the last thirty years."

"What?" The cute blonde whispered and Shawn squirmed under her scrutiny. "So you don't…you don't remember us?" All he could do was shake his head. Ruffling her partner's feathers felt right, natural, but he didn't have the same urge in regard to her. He didn't like the lilt of her voice as she asked and wished the impulse to lie simply so she'd stop looking so sad would subside. "Gus?" Another disaffirmation.

Lassiter went just short of putting his hand on her arm. "O'Hara." He offered quietly.

She half turned to him and her tone struck Shawn deeper than he'd care to admit. "Carlton…Gus and Mr. Spencer…" More names that weren't striking chords the way he knew they should. This amnesia thing was a bitch.

"We need to get the doctors back in here." Lassiter answered, all grim authority, and maybe Shawn should have felt a little bad for carrying on, he didn't, but at least he acknowledged that he should. "Spencer you don't remember anything? At all?"

He was tired of going over this, tired of the only three people he'd spoken to since waking up looking at him like he should know and being so hopelessly disappointed that he didn't. He wanted to remember, wanted any of this to be recognizable, but it wasn't. He stared back at the expectant faces and tried to force his brain to conjure up facts, memories, impressions, anything. But he was just cataloguing things, just observations that might make it sound like he knew them when he obviously didn't. Deductive reasoning. _How many hats Shawn?_ And then pain like when he'd first woken and-

"Would this be an inappropriate time to mention that I think, or at least I'm mostly positive that, yeah, I'm definitely going to pass-" Which was when he collapsed so he really wasn't certain what came next.

* * *

He assumed the doctors had rushed back in because he was back to being attached to all sorts of mechanisms and they had yet to leave him without a person in scrubs nearby since he woke up, again, two hours ago.

Another thing he could add to the tally? He hated hospitals. Like itchy, there are three available exits and two possible strategies for leaving undetected kind of hate. And to make matters worse the cute detective and her stoic partner were standing on the other side of the glass talking to an older man in a Jimmy Buffet special and a well-dressed, uptight looking guy his age. All four kept shooting glances his way with degrees of disbelief and sadness.

Shawn. Shawn Spencer tried to focus on the doctor telling him the results of his latest contrast MRI. "Mr. Spencer from what I can tell whoever did this to you was highly trained."

"You admitting something without a lawyer doc?" He offered flippantly. Since the last round of waking he'd developed a rapport with the older man. It was a lot easier to be sarcastic and resist passing out when you were legitimately speaking for the first time.

The elder gentleman chuckled. "Hardly. But I think that the severity of this is being lost on you son."

He moved his eyes from the clear partition to the neurologist. "I woke up with a bad buzz cut, five inches of fishing line in my head and the worst hangover I can't remember. I think I got it Doctor. Being Geena Davis to your Sam Jackson is not my idea of a good time." He scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned.

The doctor pulled a rolling stool from the corner and sat next to Shawn's bed. "Look, I can't tell you this is going to be easy. Focal retrograde amnesia is almost completely unheard of and it's impossible to say when it will come back to you or how quickly or how much, if any. All I know right now is that your declarative memory, based on your Long Kiss Goodnight reference and the Pretty in Pink one from earlier is fine. It's your episodic memory that seems to have been intentionally damaged."

"You know people said that that mail order medical degree from Panama was a waste of money but I knew someday it would come in handy." It seemed the older man got his point.

"Declarative memory deals with facts, you look at your shoe and you know it's a shoe. You know how to tie it. You know what color it is. Episodic is the memory of learning how to tie your shoes, remembering when you went to the store to buy them."

"And someone did this on purpose?"

"Other than the obvious surgical measures taken the results from you blood test came back." The medical professional sighed as he looked at the chart in his hands and then back to Shawn. "There are certain pharmaceuticals that inhibit the retrieval of memories. Things that we remove from the regiments of Alzheimer's sufferers, that we prescribe antigens to aid such patients. And I can't say conclusively for what period of time but you received quite heavy doses of a cocktail of a few of those."

"So not an accident then."

"It would seem rather unlikely at this point."

"Awesome." He whispered sarcastically. "I'm thinking most people don't piss off crazy-psycho geniuses bent of giving them artificial amnesia."

"Not at my hospital." Doctor Waters replied as he stood.

"Nah," Shawn answered. "I'm starting to get the impression it's a talent of mine."

"So am I."

* * *

It was an elaborate game of phone tag. He told O'Hara who called Vick who called Henry who called Guster and then they were all sitting in the waiting room, well, not the Chief, but they were all sitting there and waiting for someone to come and say anything. Seven weeks and seven hours later. Seven weeks and now seven more hours of waiting, just waiting. For a group wherein not a single member might be classified as patient in most senses that was something. He wasn't sure what the hell it was, but it was something.

He kept his holster snapped close and tight to him. He wasn't sure who was more likely to go for it and threaten the staff, him, Henry or O'Hara. Although the way Guster had been silent since his arrival maybe they were all a little dangerous right now. He almost snorted at the idea, who would have thought that Burton Guster might actually intimidate someone someday. Sure it may be the candy-stripper on loan from the local middle school but even that was an accomplishment.

They all stood like a well-choreographed scene in a movie when the doctor finally approached. He was older, the way most men of certain age secretly liked their doctor to be, not so secretly, tall and balding, and perfectly cast for this part. He looked at each of them before he spoke when it really wasn't the time because they'd been waiting for seven weeks and seven hours.

"Which one of you is Mister Spencer?" He asked. Henry quickly took credit and the doctor offered a hand. "I'm Doctor Waters, and for the foreseeable future I'll be the one treating your son." He paused and looked them over again. "You all may want to sit for this next part." It wasn't a decision made beforehand but no one took him up on his offer. "Alright then." The gentleman nodded resignedly.

"Doc, you want to get to the punch line already? I'd like to see my son." Henry ground when the other man didn't immediately begin again.

The doctor met him squarely. "I'm afraid that isn't going to be an option for sometime."

There was a collective incredulous, "Excuse me." that came from more than one of them, but which and if not all Lassiter couldn't be sure.

"Shawn is awake, and stable but his condition is rather alarming and any undue stress at this point may cause complications we won't be able to predict."

"And since when is seeing his friends and family undue stress?" The only former officer of the law in the room asked, although the doctor was pushing that statistic to change.

"When he can't remember them." Waters supplied simply. He let their shock fade before starting again. "As of right now my diagnosis is complete focal retrograde amnesia. Shawn has absolutely no memory of any event prior to his waking his apartment earlier today."

Carlton's mind flashed to the neat black stitching. _"Shawn Spencer. Amnesiac."_

"Look I just want to make sure you understand the situation before you all head back there and overwhelm my patient. Again." Doctor Water implored to the growing group outside Shawn's room.

"What do you mean again?" Lassiter asked, affronted at the accusatory tone.

"Well I would think it would be rather obvious. When Shawn was confronted with the stress of more than one person he couldn't remember and the rather apparent disappointment that both you and partner exhibited he was overwhelmed both physically and emotionally, causing his seizure."

"And that doesn't have anything to do with the giant slices someone made into his brain."

"I'm merely warning you detective," The doctor began with a sigh, "That any undue stress may cause further complications. We are in unchartered waters and most patients suffering from any kind of memory loss are often grossly affected by pressure to remember what they've forgotten. Now given Mr. Spencer's extreme circumstances I can only assume that this will be even more violent."

"What are you saying doctor?" Gus asked.

"I'm saying that you should try not to expect very much, or rather, anything at all. The more you try and instigate your friend the more likely he will relapse. We are just beginning to dissect the images of his brain and we're not yet sure what they were doing in there. I can in no way predict how he might react to over stimulus. I'm saying that you must be very careful and patient."

"Have you told my son that yet?" Henry asked gruffly. "Because since Shawn showed up three weeks early he's done everything on his own time table. Patience isn't really a virtue of Shawn's."

"Mr. Spencer you'll have to remember that for the time being, or perhaps longer, he may not be exactly the man you remember. You all need to be realistic. There is no miracle cure for something like this, there's time and even then there is no way to be sure that any of his memories will resurface or if the damage is… more…permanent."

"But we can go see him now?" Gus asked tentatively.

"I would like to keep it to one, or at most, two at time. We'll be keeping him overnight for now, but after we make sure we're through the woods I'll release him to your care. I wouldn't recommend he be left without supervision for sometime."

The head detective snorted. "That's not a new thing doctor, he never should have been left without supervision."

* * *

The knock was as unsure as the guy on the other side of it. He didn't blame him. What did you say to someone you had probably known for years that wouldn't know the difference between you and the local barista? Hey, man, how's it going? How about those Thunderbirds? Not likely.

"Hey Shawn." He shuffled towards the bed but kept outside arm's reach.

"They didn't check but I'm pretty sure even I'm not cool enough for leprosy." The amnesiac smiled slightly. "But if anyone were, it would totally be me." He didn't laugh, didn't smile, not even a lip quirk. "Okay…" Shawn coughed, nice and awkward.

"Gus." Was all the guy finally said after a long moment. Shawn felt something in his brain wiggle. There was a tug on some synapses and for the first time outside of his sarcasm something felt seemed familiar.

"Gus." He tried, letting in roll off his tongue. "Gus?" He reset his mouth and wordlessly ran through it unnoticed by his new companion who taken to staring at the floor, hands shoved in the pockets of his suit pants. It felt right to say it, which was something.

A good fifteen seconds passed and the silence started to bother Shawn faster than he felt was probably standard, but he ignored it. "So, you guys draw straws or…?" Gus's head shot up at the remark, wonder racing across his features, gone as fast as it came. He had to be an awful poker player. "Take that as a yes, I must be as awesome as I seem." He sighed and fell back against the hospital bed.

The pain in his head refused to subside and they weren't giving him anything fun until they'd flushed out the remember me never. Now his first visitor was here by unlucky chance and not interested in playing twenty questions with whoever he used to be. All in all a banner day. If he were given a questionnaire he'd definitely bubble in 'exceeded expectations'.

"Shawn." The voice came out a little broken and sad. He opened his eyes and looked back over the Gus. "Please tell me this is an angle. That you're just pulling a scam on everyone and you're messing with me before you let me in on it." Gus finally met his gaze for the first time. "Please man."

The friend of the man he wasn't anymore must have found his answer in the parallel stare because he pulled in his lips, nodded and then closed the gap between himself and the bed, crushing Shawn in a bear hug. "We'll fix this man," he assured with a certainty Shawn envied. "We'll find the bastard that did this, like we always do, and we'll fix this."

"Like we always do…" Shawn offered in return.

Gus smiled, bright and sure, "Yeah, we're the best fake psychic detective partners in the damn world. And whoever did this shouldn't have messed with us. We're the best. We're badass. We've solved over fifty eight and a half cases together!" He extended his closed fist to Shawn. He regarded it for a moment with trepidation before finally giving a small return smile and bumping it with his own. Gus gave one sharp nod and grinned, "Hell yeah!"

Shawn smiled genuinely for the first time he remembered. "Hell yeah." He copied in a whisper. He tilted his head after a pause. "Wait, fifty seven and a half?"

* * *

**A/N: **So reviews would be oh so lovely, please, please and please. And next up on TMYL: REUNIONS ABOUND! SPARKLY BALLOONS! AND PEOPLE ARE DEAD! YAY!


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